Enraged, Karl’s beady eyes jumped between me and Pete and the detective, his throat bobbing thickly when it passed over the armed officers. He went for innocence when blame was written all over him. “What is the meaning of this? We’re in the middle of a meeting here.”
I tried to ignore the dread spilling from Emily who kept backing farther away. Tried to focus on my purpose.
I cocked my head. “The meaning of this is you’re finished. You thought I was just going to stand aside and let you and Cory get away with what you’ve done? You are more delusional than I thought.”
Fury knocked the calm façade he was wearing from his demeanor. His face turned so red I was pretty sure he was going to blow.
That was the plan.
“What are you talking about? This is nonsense.”
I planted my hands on the desk. “What I’m talking about are the women you’ve extorted. The women you convinced to smuggle drugs in from other countries, promising them a better life, a home, and then turning around and forcing them into being your personal escorts once they get here. I’m talking about the money you’ve laundered through Cory Douglas, filtering it through A Riot of Roses’ royalties. I’m talking about the deranged acts you covered for him in order to keep up the charade.”
I angled down closer and spit the words in his face. “I’m talking about what you allowed to happen to my sister. What that bastard Cory did to her and you turned a blind eye because you are nothing but a greedy, motherfucking monster. I’m talking about every-fucking-thing you stole from me.”
It was a growl.
Pure venom.
A bustle of energy shocked through the atmosphere.
Cracking and stirring.
“The fuck?” Rhys muttered.
Richard inhaled a sharp breath. Still wasn’t sure how much he had been involved. If he’d been a willing partner or if he’d just stumbled on one of Karl Fitzgerald’s seedy parties that gave a whole new meaning to sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.
Wrong place at the wrong time.
Underground parties that Karl threw.
Drugs and women and men at your disposal. It was always free, but oh, did it come at a cost. None knew they were being photographed. The pictures Karl used to manipulate his artists. What he held over them so he could siphon their royalties, keeping more of the pot for himself.
It was the devastated whimper coming from Emily that told me everything.
What made my spirit cringe and my heart flail. Urges hit me to turn to her and beg her to listen. To explain.
But I had to see this moment through.
“Are you joking? These accusations are nothing but lies. You have no proof.” The bastard shook his head, dismissive. Like he thought this was another hiccup he could sweep under the rug.
Toss some money on it to cover it.
Pete laughed a sarcastic sound and tossed the thick folder to the desk. Picture after picture slid out.
Evidence that couldn’t be contradicted.
Sex slavery and extortion and a mountain of depravity.
“Beg to differ,” he said. “This has been coming a long, long time.”
Fitzgerald’s face turned beet red when he saw the contents of the files, panic rising up before he started tossing his gaze between Pete and me. “Fucking traitors. I was the one who took care of you.” Detective Casile stepped forward. Karl rocked back in disbelief. In fear and the slowly sinking reality that this was happening.
His attention jumped around, like the asshole was actually considering running.
I’d gladly take him down in a second flat.
“Karl Fitzgerald, I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“This is bullshit. Complete fabrication. I want to speak to my attorney.” Karl leveled me with a look that could decimate an entire village.
The detective moved around the desk. “I was just getting to that. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.” He drew out that part like a taunt as he pulled out cuffs.
My stepfather sneered at me as the detective moved behind him, wrenching his arms behind his back. “You think you have the upper hand?” he spat. “I will destroy you, you piece of shit. I should have ended you a long time ago. What purpose does this serve? You just tossed the silver spoon I’ve been feeding you with in the trash.”
Asshole was forgetting one very important thing—I was next in line. Not because he wanted me there. But because that was the one demand my mother had made when I’d been let out of prison.
I set the contract Carolina George had just signed on the desk, trapping it beneath the tip of my index finger. The contract in which Fitzgerald had altered the fine print without the band’s knowledge.
Their manager had been in on it.