Chapter Eighteen
Alex
Parker’s voice rings through my head as I march toward the front door of the D’Hautpoul mansion. His criticism, his insults, and his jabs infect me like a virus, circulating my system and weakening me the more I give them attention.
You’re reckless. You think with your clit. You’re going to get yourself killed.
Maybe if people didn’t try killing me every time I went to collect a debt, I wouldn’t be in this situation. But Parker doesn’t see that. He doesn’t want to see anything except a cute little fleshlight for him to fuck whenever he wants.
He’s just mad because I’ve been initiating sex lately instead of him. And not just with him.
A butler answers the door when I knock, stepping back with a slight bow at the waist as he ushers me inside. Walking into the foyer like this feels strange—I know how rough I must look, and I probably still smell like lust, too, but I don’t care.
I just need Tomas right now.
My heart hammers in my chest as Gilbert wanders past me. His eyes roam my body briefly with visible disgust, but he doesn’t say anything, passing as a ghost might do with little to no interest in human affairs. The slight nod of his head is all I get as far as an invitation into the living room.
A glance at my clothes relieves me—at least I look like a properly dressed Moretti. I changed out of those slick tights into a pair of dark blue jeans and a soft purple cardigan over a black blouse. Designer boots rest on my feet, clapping across the tile of the foyer until I hit the plush carpet of the living room.
The butler lingers in the doorway until Gilbert says, “Nothing for us, Clifton. Thank you.”
When Clifton closes the doors, I hear his footsteps retreat, my heart beating louder with the increasingly muted sound. I sink tentatively into a nearby couch and cross my arms over my chest, wondering what Gilbert could possibly want with me.
“I was informed you possess the knowledge of your father,” he states while leaning against a vintage desk on the other side of the room. He taps the polished wood and continues, “A notebook left by the late Felipe Moretti—I’ve been told it’s in your hands.”
Resisting the instinct to touch my pocket, where I’ve been keeping the notebook today, is more difficult than trying not to squirm under his gaze. “Is that so?”
“Don’t toy with me, girl,” he snarls as he marches toward me. “I’m aware of it being on your person at all times. Show me the book.”
“No.”
His menacing approach sends me crawling back over the edge of the couch and toward the door. I stumble and twist my ankle, falling to my side as I try to reach the knob. He grabs my shoulders and shakes me. “Do you keep it in a pocket?” His eyes drop to my chest. “Or somewhere a little more heavily guarded?”
“Don’t you dare,” I growl viciously as he yanks at the front of my blouse. “Get your disgusting hands off me, you fucking pig!”
“The Persian ordered the hit on your father,” he informs me as though we’re casual friends having lunch and not grappling with each other. “But we all had a hand in it. Every single one of us.”
Raising my elbows grants me some protection, but I’m on my back on the ground and this isn’t a great position for me. “Get the hell off me!”
“You’re too stupid to understand the power you wield with that notebook,” he grunts while grabbing my wrists. “If you give it to me, I can use it wisely. You’re just a stupid little girl!”
“I’m stronger than you think.”
He laughs bitterly. “And the ego of the late Felipe as well! You’re so much like your father.” He pauses for effect and then asks rhetorically, “Will you end up like him as well?”
“What do you know about his death?”
“The kinds of details that a girl like you would squirm knowing about.”
I grit my teeth and shove hard, getting some leverage so I can sit up. “Tell me what you know.”
“Osmond told the Persian where to find Felipe. That little birdy was willing from day one to bend and dance for that wretched figure.”
“Parker’s father?”
Gilbert smiles, the expression appearing sickly on his face. “Oh yes. Fletcher knew Felipe would be alone with his mistress. Such close friends, eh?”
“Fletcher.”