Dirty Ties

Little did they know, I would be the last one standing.

Revenge wasn’t my only aspiration in life, but if it was the only thing I accomplished, if it resulted in my hometown free of my mother’s murderers, it was enough for me.

I was just one of countless others who wanted to take these people down. In their race for power, they’d left so many victims in their wake. Victims who had families. Those left behind might not have known who killed their husbands, daughters, sisters, but I would give them that knowledge, along with proof that punishment had been served.

Justice. To wake up every day knowing I rid Chicago of its worst white-collar crime family. To fall asleep every night knowing one less assistant would be raped, one less whistle-blower would be dumped in the river.

To fill my lungs with peace, knowing I avenged my mother.

I burned for that. Just thinking about it ignited a fire in my blood.

“Before we begin,” Trent said, catching my attention, “I looked up Maura Flynt while you were waiting. I’m sorry to hear about her death. I was a journalist years ago. That’s how I met her. I interviewed her on the set of Race to Midnight.”

The interview part was true. That movie had been her debut as a stunt double. A year before I was born.

I swallowed the anger and grief that tried to climb up my throat. He didn’t know I knew the truth, and I needed to keep it that way in order to get close to him.

I nodded. “She had some crazy fans. They said her murderer had been stalking her for a while.” Somehow Trent had pinned my mother’s death on Edward Carthill, who later served time for a string of murders. I lifted a shoulder. “He died in prison a few years ago.”

Without a flicker in his expression, he scrutinized mine, no doubt trying to determine if I believed the shit about Carthill.

“But that’s not why I’m here.” I prowled the length of the boardroom table and stopped behind the chair across from Dalton Baskel, Kaci’s father.

Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and silver streaked the temples of his thinning brown hair. “Logan Flynt.” The blue bow-tie at his neck bobbed with his throat. “I’m Dal—”

“Let’s skip the formal introductions.” I rested a forearm on the chair back. “I trust Trent gave you the packets I brought?”

“Yes, well…” Dalton’s hand clenched on the table. “I’m—”

“The technical brain behind Trenchant Media? I understand you’ve transformed this print shop into the leading innovator in digital media.”

The corner of his mouth bounced.

I tilted my head. “Too bad you can’t publicly beat your chest about your biggest innovations.”

He opened his mouth to interrupt, and I talked over him. “Computer trespassing, tampering with evidence, hacking, forgery, cyber defamation. My favorite is the hoax tweet you issued from Senator Roland’s Twitter account. Remember that one? The destructive announcement that accused Newswide Corp of slander?”

He grimaced. “Mr. Flynt—”

“That was a two for one, right? A liberal senator’s plunge in ratings and your biggest competitor suffering a four-hundred-billion dollar removal from the S&P 500 Index.”

Kathleen Baskel slammed a fist on the table, her red-dyed hair as witch-like as her pointy chin. “Who do you think you are?”

Watching them get all worked up filled me with satisfaction. I slid my hands in my front pockets and shifted to stand before her. “Well, Kathleen. Since appearances are your thing. What do you see?” I shrugged and flashed my most charming smile. “The CEO of Trenchant? Do I fit the image?”

Her blue eyes blazed, the only feature she shared with her daughter. But beneath the anger was appreciation, her gaze sliding over the musculature I busted my ass to maintain. She drank in my chest, my shoulders, and stalled on my lips.

I shifted toward her, lengthened my spine to accentuate my full height, and subtly expanded my muscles to exude an imposing, confident air. “Everyone in this room knows you like a pretty face. And a prettier bank balance. Charity parties. Rubbing elbows with the rich and sexy. Gets you wet, doesn’t it, Kathleen?”

Her fingers went to her throat, her mouth gaping. Dalton turned a furious shade of constipated.

“Hey, I’m not judging.” I absolutely was. In the years I’d tracked her, she’d slept with numerous billionaires, before and after she accepted their donations, all in the name of philanthropy for organizations that never saw a dime.

“This is bullshit, Trent.” A seething whisper from the woman who had yet to speak.

A twinge lit behind my eye. Collin’s mother, Nicola Anderson, was a piece of work. Her stunning Italian features did little to hide the ugly, vindictive creature inside. She might not have killed my mother, but she had been the voice in Trent’s head. I didn’t need hard evidence to prove it. I had my mother’s diary, Trent’s retinue of ex-lovers, and their personal accounts of just how sharp Nicola kept her claws.