Game of Shadows

by Amanda K. Byrne

  Apparently satisfied we lost the tail, Nick glides out into traffic and continues toward his office, circling and backtracking, dragging it out another hour. By the time we roll into the underground garage, my nerves are gone and I’m staring out the window at the passing scenery as if he didn’t just abort some high-speed chase.

  From my last visit, I know his company occupies most of the twelve-story building. The boardroom I sat outside yesterday was on the top floor. The seating area was slick and modern, the chairs and loveseats covered in a dark gray material, the walls a lighter shade of the same gray. The rest of the floor was taken up by offices, and I assumed his was one of them.

  Today he punches the button for the ninth floor. He mentioned something about finding a place for me to work undisturbed. Maybe there’s an empty office or cubicle on that floor.

  The place is quiet. A low thrum of chatter and ringing phones and humming machines prevents total silence. He leads me through a short maze of cubicles, and I half expect someone to pop their head up like a prairie dog. He stops in front of one of the doors, the nameplate on the wall bearing his name, and fishes out his keys.

  “I would have thought your office was on the top floor.”

  He unlocks the door and ushers me inside. “More accessible this way. Top floor is conference rooms and a break room, a couple of offices for contractors or temps. Constantine’s office is next door.”

  The room reminds me of the condo—kind of boring. One wall is made up of windows with a view of the building across the way. His desk is covered in papers and folders. Two sleek monitors sit in one corner. A row of bookshelves hold some books, a few pictures, and what look like awards. A couple of visitor chairs are positioned in front of the desk, and I flop into one of them. “So where will I be?”

  “There’s an empty office on the other side of the floor, next to one of the server rooms.” He sorts through a stack of folders and tucks one under his arm. “Come on.”

  Other side of the floor? Frowning, I trail after him through the cubicle maze, last night’s doubts creeping in. When we’d finally fallen asleep, he was right there with me, my heart stuttering when he curved his body around mine and pulled me close. The last thing I remember was his arm tightening around my hips, his whispered, “Good night, love” sending me into dreamland. I was so certain we finally landed on the same page. My own fault for believing he’d made his peace with our age difference.

  Stupid Cass, always wanting what she can’t have.

  “This is it.”

  It is an empty office. There’s a desk, a chair, and a computer. Swallowing my hurt, I walk around the desk and boot up the computer. “What are you going to be doing?”

  He leans over and types in a password. “My job. Where do you want to start?”

  I purse my lips. “Your business.” Nick personally owns, or owns part of, at least ten technology companies of varying sizes. We’re in the offices of his largest company. “Did Marc and Steven both work for you? Aboveboard?”

  “Not at this office, but at others, in some capacity or another.” He points to an icon on the screen. “Portal’s here. I’ll write down the password for you.”

  “Any ideas on how far back I should start?”

  Someone passes by the open door and waves at Nick, giving me a curious look. Nick waves back. “Marc started ten years ago. Steven started six years ago. Steven’s brother, if you want to dig into that, is Vincent and started seven years ago.”

  “And Marc?” His name, his face, both still close off my throat, allowing the bare minimum of air to pass.

  He spins the chair away from the desk and crouches in front of me. “Marc was an only child,” he says quietly. “Tons of cousins, some friends and friendly faces within the company and the organization at large.”

  I stare at my hands, images of Marc bombarding me. The man wasn’t clean. I saw enough of his life to know he was in something dirty. But I hadn’t trusted my instincts, either, though they screamed at me that what I was doing was very, very wrong.

  I went through with it anyway, because proving to my father I deserved his attention was worth more than another person’s life.

  “Cassidy. Look at me.” Nick tips my chin up. “It happened. There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

  “It didn’t have to happen.” The words are bitter on my tongue, all the more so for the truth they bear. “Turner always told me to trust my gut, and it said ‘don’t do this,’ and I did it anyway.” I want to curl into a ball and hide under the desk. “Why aren’t you mad at me? He was your family. You liked him. You and Constantine both.”

  “Just because he was family doesn’t mean I knew him well. His role in the organization was pretty far removed from mine. You can’t control most of LA with a small family.” My mouth twists with doubt, and he sighs. “Okay. Different example. Does Denise have any close friends you’re not close with?”

  She doesn’t, but I understand what he’s saying. “He’s family. You grew up with him.”

  He slides his hand around to the nape of my neck, the gentle touch a shock. “I’ve had a year to come to terms with Marc’s death. Being angry with you won’t do me any good. You might have wielded the knife, but you weren’t the one who killed him.” He hesitates. “And I know what it’s like to follow orders you don’t agree with. To do something your instincts tell you isn’t a good idea. What’d you call me the other day? A hypocrite? I won’t lie—I was angry when you first told us. But staying angry would have made me exactly what you’d called me.”

  I let out a derisive snort. “Since when does my opinion of you matter?”

  His gaze hardens, and he drags my head down to his. His kiss is a punishment, harsh, flaming heat, the rough scrape of teeth on my lower lip. “You’ve almost got me convinced we aren’t so different on the inside despite the age gap. Don’t try to change my mind now.”

  A new regret pops into my head, and I’m shocked I didn’t think of it before. “I can’t help it. I finally got you naked last night. Don’t you think it’s possible that’s blinding you?”

  “I’d like to think I’m past the stage where I think with my dick all the time, Cass.”

  I slide out of the chair, needing one of the most basic of human connections—comfort. On my knees, I wind my arms around him and bury my face in his neck. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I’m sorry for so many things. For agreeing to kill him in the first place. For doubting him. For putting doubts in his head. For taking his cousin’s life. For the target on my back, which always seems to lead back to him.

  I stiffen at the thought. It does, doesn’t it? Those attempts on my life hadn’t started until the job where I met Nick.

  I draw away, sliding one hand into his hair to play with the strands, grounding myself. “What if they’re connected somehow? Your hit and the people trying to kill me? No one’s come after me before, not until you.”

  To my surprise, he groans. “Shit. I should have thought of that.” He runs a hand down my back and up again, moving both hands to my elbows. He cups them and lifts me into the seat. “Stick with the original plan. See if anything pops on Steven or Marc. Chances are if you find something, it’ll be easier to follow a trail to me.”

  I brush my hair away from my face, his hand catching mine before I can tug at the hem of my shirt. “You know you do that when you’re nervous?” He squeezes my hand and lets go. “Come find me when you’re hungry for lunch.”

  I suck my upper lip into my mouth and nod. “I’ll need last names.”

  “Marc was Marc Pappas. Steven and Vincent are Kosta.”

  Marc Pappas. I can do this. “Go.” I wave a hand at the door. “Be a big, bad businessman.”

  He smiles, a dark, wicked curving of lips that goes a long way toward chasing off the shadows and walks out the door.

  Chapter 21

  “I know you.”

  I glance up from the document currently giving me a
headache. Isaiah stands in the door, brows drawn together. “It’s Cass, right?”

  “Right. And you’re Isaiah.” I minimize the screen and stand, needing an excuse to stretch. I’ve been at it for three hours, and the words are running together. The notepad I found in one of the desk drawers is half full.

  He grins, his gaze darting around the room. “You didn’t bring any more cinnamon rolls, did you?”

  “Sadly, no.” My stomach rumbles, reminding me it’s been even longer since I’ve eaten. “Probably could use something more substantial than a roll at this point, anyway.” I step around the desk.

  Isaiah doesn’t move, his face clear, a question still in his eyes. “You an intern as well?”

  Huh? “As well?” My mind races for the next lie, the next story I’ll spin. “Oh, you mean why am I here? Temporary employee. My work study position for the term didn’t come through, and I needed extra cash. Nick needed some help sorting through old files and offered to pay me to go through them.”

  “Nick? Oh, Dom. Weird hearing you call him Nick. His sisters are the only ones who call him something other than Dom.” I remember Lia calling him Nicky. Isaiah stares over my shoulder. “What are you looking for? Anything I can help with?”

  I poke him in the shoulder. “Yes. You can help me find some lunch.” Nick didn’t say anything about not talking to his employees or other family members, and Isaiah might be able to help me cull out a number of years without actually having to read through the files. I edge past him and head for the elevators. “Maybe you can tell me about the Nautilus project too?” It came up repeatedly in the years I checked and seemed to take up a large portion of the saved communications I read.

  Isaiah hurries to catch up, an easy grin on his face, and I take a moment to stare at him in unabashed appreciation. He’s very much a Kosta, though I wonder what it is that makes me so comfortable around him. Something about the way he carries himself, I think. Not as slick and charming as Constantine, not as confident as Nick.

  “Nautilus Corp was a small conglomeration of companies,” Isaiah says once we’re in the elevator. “Constantine and Dom were working together to try and split it up and buy a portion when the deal fell apart. I was working for a competitor at the time, so I don’t know all the details of the why.”

  The doors slide open, and we step out into the building lobby. Marc’s name came up enough times in conjunction with the Nautilus project I hoped finding a viable lead would have been that simple. “Maybe they had a better offer. Or decided they didn’t want to split up the companies that way.”

  Isaiah shrugs. “Maybe. Come on. There’s a deli a block over that’s pretty good.”

  The deli turns out to be a hole in the wall with exposed brick walls and battered tables scattered over a scratched and scuffed linoleum floor. A long counter runs the length of the space, and a couple of sandwich makers stand behind it, filling orders. It’s crowded with other business types getting lunch, some in suits, others dressed more casually like Isaiah. We order our sandwiches, and the bandage on my neck garners some strange looks.

  He comments on it when we sit down with our sandwiches. “Didn’t see that yesterday.” He gestures to my neck. “You had it covered up.”

  I swallow a bite of sandwich. “There was an incident. I was attacked. He did some damage before I got away.”

  “An incident?”

  “An incident involving a knife and someone who thought it would be a good idea to sneak up behind me. He stole my purse, and the knife dug into the skin a little too far.” It’s a good lie. I’m glad I thought of it when I was with Denise the other day. “Nick took care of the wound. I’ll be fine in a few days.” It was decidedly less pink this morning, which bodes well. “Any other failed deals you can tell me about?”

  Isaiah doesn’t bat an eye at the sudden change of subject. “There’s a bunch,” he says around a mouthful of sandwich. “It’s business. It happens. Is that what Dom has you doing?”

  “Mostly.” Partly. Failed deals are a good place to start, especially if someone’s angry about losing out.

  He grins. “Later. Don’t want to mix business with pleasure.”

  What is it with these guys? I lower my lashes, stealing a peek at him, and his grin widens. “You know I’m with Nick, right?”

  His grin turns rueful. “Figured as much. Can’t blame a guy for hoping otherwise, though.”

  He asks me about my classes, and I push aside the pang of sadness and tell him about the late night papers and surprise quizzes until all that’s left of our lunch is crumpled paper and crumbs.

  We walk back to the office and, true to his word, Isaiah rattles off the failed acquisitions with as much detail as he can remember, repeating himself when I beg him to slow down, scrawling notes on my pad. Aside from the Nautilus deal, there were three others that he has quite a bit of information on, two of which were spearheaded by Constantine.

  I tap my pen against a half-filled page. “What about the ones that almost didn’t go through? Like yesterday’s?”

  Isaiah winces, and I cringe. Shit. “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “That was rude of me.” Tact isn’t my middle name, but I’m usually better at it than that.

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. Do you mean in general, or just the ones I’ve worked on?” I hunch my shoulders up around my ears, and he laughs, the sound snide, tripping a tiny warning bell. “There aren’t as many of those. In the early years, Dom handled most of the deals. Didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly. Con was usually along for the ride, and after a while he’d handle some, though it’s not something he likes doing.”

  That’s a surprise. Constantine’s so charming, so slick, I figure deals must be a great way for him to get his rocks off.

  Isaiah’s still talking. “Marc handled a few over the years. Usually small ones, though it wasn’t something he enjoyed.” A shadow passes over his face.

  Nausea bubbles to life in my stomach, a slow churn eating away at my recently ingested lunch. I swallow against the bile creeping up my throat. “Marc?”

  His face goes blank, the shadows sinking deeper into his eyes. “Cousin of ours. We grew up together, more like brothers. Died a little over a year ago.” No mention of the police, no mention of how he died.

  Sprawled on a cement floor, blood puddling under his head, sightless eyes staring at the wall. Utter peace in his voice when he told me to “just do it.” That he wouldn’t fight. And he didn’t.

  I jump up, saliva flooding my mouth. “Where’s the bathroom?” My skin’s clammy and loose, my legs weak. I am not going to embarrass myself. I will make it to the bathroom in time.

  Alarmed, Isaiah shoots out of his seat, clasps my elbow, and hurries me down the hall. Swallowing convulsively, I slap a hand over my mouth as he pushes me through the door to the ladies’ room, and I race for the nearest open stall, landing hard on my knees in front of the toilet as the first retch wracks my body.

  Someone holds my hair away from my face, hands soft on my back, rubbing gentle circles as my lunch forces its way out of my stomach. Empty and shaking, I swipe my fingers under my eyes and sit on my heels, heart beating a sickening tattoo on my ribs.

  Memories claw at the walls I’ve built, sinuous whispers threading their way through the cracks. I’m pretty sure Marc is the only one of his kind, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t others waiting to rear their heads. Others who didn’t deserve the fate I’d meted out.

  Isaiah kneels next to me. “You okay for a minute?” I wrinkle my nose and nod once, and he gets to his feet and disappears. A tap splashes on, and he returns with a damp paper towel. I run it over my face and neck, then wipe my mouth. He helps me to my feet and leaves me braced against the sink. “I’m going to get you some water,” he says before the door swings shut.

  Unwilling to wait for him to return, I flip on the tap again and cup my hands under it. I rinse my mouth and shut off the water. I’m not sure what’s wo
rse, puking or crying. Crying, I think as I comb my fingers through my hair and straighten my clothes. Crying usually leaves me with a sense of hopelessness. At least puking only leaves me weak.

  The door swings open, and Nick barges in ahead of Isaiah, bottle of water in hand. He twists the top off and shoves it at me, the water cold enough to shock my skin. I take a tentative sip and shudder as the icy liquid hits my tender stomach.

  His face a neutral mask, he watches as I drink a quarter of the bottle, waiting between each sip to see if my stomach will expel it or allow it to stay. Finally I cap it and put it on the counter. “I’m okay,” I croak. My gaze flits from Nick to Isaiah, who doesn’t look at all convinced.

  I’m not convinced myself. I don’t know that I can go in there and continue scanning files.

  “Are you sure? Do you want me to take you home?” Isaiah steps around Nick.

  Nick replies while my answer’s still forming. “She’ll be fine. I’ll take her home in a little bit.”

  All at once, I know I’m not okay. I want a shower, clean clothes, and maybe some tea. I want a book or a movie and a blanket and a few hours to allow my mind to reset. It’s the only way I’ll get through this without needing a bucket at my feet the entire time. I straighten as much as my protesting stomach will allow and offer Isaiah a trembling smile. “I’ll wear him down. Give me a few minutes.”

  With a hesitant nod and a wary glance at his cousin, Isaiah ducks out of the restroom. I slump against the counter. “I’m done for the day, Nick. I can find another way home, or I can call Denise and see if I can camp out on Charlie’s couch for a few hours while you work, but I can’t handle any more today.”

  “He upset you.” Instead of moving closer, he leans on the wall and slips his hands into his pockets.

  I sigh. Wishful thinking he’d come over here and hold me. “Not exactly. More like my brain got the better of me and instructed my stomach to stage a revolt. He was telling me about what failed deals he could remember, and it looped around to Marc.”