Page 28 of Unlock My Heart

She crosses the room to check out the vending machine—a fucking racket if I’ve ever seen one at five dollars per pop—returning with cherry colas and chips. “What’s wrong?” Al asks.

“This reminds me of someone, that’s all.” I pop the top and take a sip, my throat constricting so hard I can barely get the sweet liquid down.

“Sienna,” Al says quietly.

“How do you know that?” I sputter, nearly choking on my drink.

“Wild guess. She’s about as happy as you look, by the way.”

“What do you mean?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Her husband’s a real asshole,” Al whispers. “I was at Michele’s birthday party last weekend. He got mad at Sienna and shoved her in the pool. Acted like it was her fault; trying to embarrass her in front of the family by pretending she was drunk. She wasn’t. He’s always a jerk to her when he thinks no one is watching.”

My hand grips the can so hard it crunches in half, cherry cola sloshing out.

Al rises and walks briskly to the vending area, returning with a napkin. She wipes up the spill, continuing, “I’m nosy, and so I followed Sienna inside their house after that all went down. I was eavesdropping through the door; she was crying.”

“I was told she’s happy.” Fury seeps into my bloodstream. “That Michele treats her like a queen. That they’re madly in love.” The last part has my stomach rioting.

“You were told wrong,” my sister says bluntly. “That man loves to torment her, but that’s about it.”

“What about her design studio?” At least Sienna’s living her dream, despite having to put up with the likes of Michele.

Al raises an eyebrow. “What design studio?”

“Sienna’s design studio in the Quarter, where she sells her custom-made gowns…” I trail off because Al’s shaking her head. “She doesn’t have a design studio.”

The ground is no longer beneath my feet.

“She doesn’t have a design studio,” Al repeats solemnly.

So many people are about to die.

Chapter Nine

Sienna

The present

“Your client and his entourage must follow the same rules as anyone else interested in our private hostesses. Participants must provide a clean STD test, administered by our provider,” I repeat to the handler of an A-list star who’s currently a guest in our penthouse suite.

Said star is on holiday in the Big Easy, and his handler thinks I’m some big easy pushover. But a cinematic career and chlamydia aren’t mutually exclusive, and I won’t risk my girls’ health because of a man’s ego. Nor will I allow a client to provide his own test results, as I recently caught a man attempting to use fake medical records.

“Fuck that. We’ll bring in our own girls,” he says dismissively.

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “You could, but then you’d run the risk of law enforcement’s involvement. And with your client’s nasty divorce, getting caught with cheap hookers and blow wouldn’t go over well—in the court of law or the court of public opinion.”

“Bitch, who the fuck do you think you are?”

Nic appears, digging the barrel of his gun into this man’s temple. “Apologize to Mrs. D’Amico.”

“I’m so-rry,” the handler stutters.

“Apology accepted,” I say brightly, only because I don’t want to deal with blood spatter in my office.

Nic holsters his gun, taking a seat in the chair next to the man who looks like he might shit his designer jeans.

“How about as a courtesy to your client, I have our doctor make a penthouse call?” I suggest. “One teensy little finger prick is all it takes.” The double standard of girls undergoing testing but not the clients was righted as soon as I took over as madam.