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“You think I know nothing? Keeping your face, your name hidden from me. Let’s be serious… George Harry Sandivar.”
I imagine him sucking in a sharp breath, maybe curse under his breath. In any case, I feel the dynamic shift. I can smell it on the air.
“I see,” the Boss says slowly. “And what else do you think you know, Jamie Fleming?”
I lick my cracked lips, because you first might not go down so well. “I went through the papers my parents left behind. You know I did.” I draw a deep breath and force myself to slow down, not to sound as desperate as I am. “I have company names, numbers, transaction details. Want me to tell in front of your stupid bullies, want them to hear it all?”
There’s silence, and Christ, I’m going crazy like this, unable to see or hear what’s happening. There were never any papers in my dad’s office, or in the house. The police—and myself—scoured every nook and corner. There’s a reason I went down this suicidal path.
“With the guards I’ve set around the warehouse, you can’t escape,” the Boss says.
I frown, an icy feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. Did Layla make it out?
“Remove his blindfold and get out,” Sandivar goes on.
“Yes, Boss.” The thug who tied me up approaches and pulls the blindfold off, then bends behind me to undo my hands. “All done. Better not try anything,” he warns as he straightens and steps back. He’s young, his hair a blond tumble of curls.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I rub my reddened wrists and take my first look at the Boss. George Harry Sandivar, owner and CEO of Sandivar Real Estate. The first member of the Organization I have met, apart from my parents. That I know of, that is.
He seems to be in his late fifties, with a trim moustache and short dark hair, shot through with silver. In a slick gray suit, red tie, black polished shoes, he looks distinguished.
He looks old. No wonder he calls me “boy.” I wonder if all the Organization heads are his age.
“Look at me,” he says, lifting his bushy brows. “Take a good look. Because this is as close as you get at this point. This is my contribution. Now, to see yours.”
Fuck. “What do you want to see?”
He shrugs, smirks. “Proof of your decision to join us, a proof of faith and dedication. We need to convince the council of the Organization that you are loyal, like your parents. That betraying them is not a character flaw.” He winks, and my face heats even though it was all a lie that I turned them in for this. “That you are competent and trustworthy.”
He’s mocking me. He doesn’t believe I’m any of those things.
“Of course,” I say smoothly and lean against the pillar, struggling to get up. “Makes perfect sense.”
He’s going to force me into something. Somethin
g bad. I know it, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I’ve known it since I decided to go through with this plan.
“Then you won’t mind sharing the information you got from the papers your parents kept.” He’s giving me a steely stare, and although I’m a pretty cocky bastard, it sends chills through me.
“Not at all.” The grin stretching my mouth hurts, and not just because of my swollen jaw and split lip. “But it’s information I’d like to discuss with the council of the Organization, you understand, I’m sure. I have some questions about our investments.” There. I used “our.” It should earn me points, right?
But Sandivar’s eyes only get colder. “You want to question our investments. You, a boy who hasn’t even been accepted in the Organization yet.”
Wait a sec… “I already said I’m in.”
“That simple, is it?” He taps his forehead with a thick finger. “You’re, what, twenty-one?”
“Twenty-two,” I growl, and try to dial it down, because I sound like I’m three. “And your point is?”
“Young.”
Right. That confirms my suspicions that the rest of the Organization leaders are dinosaurs.
“I’ve been our company’s chief financial officer for the past three years. My father taught me everything.” And the thought makes me sad. He was a good father, albeit distant. “I’m good at what I do.”
“Are you now?” He stares at me for a long time, as if he can see inside my head. “We need more than your word for it, boy. We’re taking you for a test drive.”
“The fuel levels are low,” I grumble, my mind turning his words over, trying to guess what he means to do. “Some real food would be nice. And a drink. A shower. A bed. You know.”
