A Taste like Sin Page 11

  “The tests haven’t come back yet,” Diane explains as we turn to daddy in unison. “But your father would want you safe.”

  “That’s why your officers were at my suite the other day?” I ask, fighting to keep the suspicion from my tone. “For my safety?”

  “I apologize if their presence alarmed you,” the chief says. “But given your recent association with Damien Villa, I know your father would want your security to be of the utmost priority.”

  I swallow hard and struggle to keep my tone cordial. “My association?” Judging from the barely concealed hostility in his tone, this man shares the same view of Damien that my father did. Does. “Is he a suspect?”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you,” Chief Harrison says, but his expression doesn’t reveal an ounce of contrition. His eyes rake over me, lingering near my throat and the pearl hanging there. “I know your father tended to shelter you. You can’t be blamed for not understanding just how dangerous such a man may be. Even I am forced to mingle with him on occasion.”

  “Because of rumors?” I innocently question.

  He smiles. “Tell me. Have you ever heard of La Muerte?”

  I shake my head. “No, I haven’t.”

  “As you wouldn’t. You’re a smart woman, but I doubt you’ve spent much time researching Colombian gangs. It means the order of the death,” he says. “One of the more dangerous outfits to operate below the border. In fact, one of its former leaders was rumored to have run something of a cult—killed a few years ago.”

  “Interesting,” I manage to croak.

  “Very,” Harrison agrees. “Even more interesting is the fact that some of the rumors state that the Villa boys are none other than that man’s sons, continuing their legacy so to speak. And if that rumor has any merit to it at all, you have no idea what such a family may be capable of.”

  But maybe he’s wrong. Damien himself alluded to that very possibility: Maybe I’ve lost that ruthless drive.

  “This is all a precaution, Juliana,” Diane insists. “Just in case.”

  “I should be going anyway.” Chief Harrison nods toward Diane and extends his hand in my direction. “I’ll keep in touch, Juliana. I hope to see you at the gala as well.” His grip tightens harder than I expect as he swiftly shakes my hand and then releases it. “Best of luck.”

  I watch him go, rubbing the hand he touched against my pants. It’s throbbing.

  “Gala?” I ask, looking back at Diane.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she admits, wringing her slim fingers together. “Chief Harrison offered to stand in, but I think you should. You should represent your father at the annual Wellington benefit gala.”

  The Wellington family has a long history in the city’s political landscape. I think one of them was a presidential candidate, and several have served as senators or prominent businessmen. The last one to make a mark is the youngest son of their last influential patriarch: a man more inclined to dole out money to politicians than mingle among them. He died a few years back of a heart attack, but Daddy still attended every year, kissing up to the executors of his estate.

  “I’ve never been,” I say thickly. “He never took me.”

  “It’s tomorrow night,” Diane says. “Your father was a headliner. He planned to secure donations—” She breaks off, swallowing hard. “Please. You should represent him. It’s what he—no, it’s what I want. Please, Juliana.”

  I’ve never seen her like this, her eyes bloodshot, her hands trembling.

  “All right.” I step forward and carefully throw my arms around her, hugging her tight. “I’ll go. Don’t worry.”

  She squeezes me in return. “Thank you. Thank you. I know he’d… Thank you. And”—she pulls back and swipes a wayward lock of hair away from my face—“I hope whatever your father left for you gave you some ounce of closure.”

  I lower my gaze to my purse, remembering the documents tucked inside it. “I haven’t gone yet,” I admit. “But I will.”

  Julio is waiting for me at the hospital’s private entrance, standing beside the car. Without complaint, I enter the back seat, but as the faithful bodyguard takes the wheel, I clear my throat.

  “Damien put you in charge of my security,” I start, settling my hands primly on my lap.

  “Sí.” The man shoots me a wary glance from the corner of his eye. “Can I help you with anything, Ms. Thorne?”

  “I want to take a detour,” I propose. “A detour without getting approval from your boss first. A personal detour that I’m informing you about rather than running off on my own.”

  “So, if I may ask, why are you?” Amusement laces Julio’s otherwise professional tone.

  A smile tugs on my mouth as well—at least until I mull over his question. “Because I’m scared,” I admit, turning to stare out the window as the city streets pass in a blur. “I’m terrified, enough that I would rather not shun one of the few people capable of protecting me.”

  “So where to, Ms. Thorne?”

  I bite back a sigh of relief. Will he really keep this quiet? I have no choice but to take the risk. “A bank,” I say, fishing a stack of documents from my purse. “Here is the address.”

  He nods, and moments later, we arrive in front of an upscale establishment in the heart of the city. When I approach a woman at the front desk, she eyes me warily until I say what must be the magic words.

  “I’m Juliana Thorne. My father has a security deposit box here?”

  “Oh, yes! Your mother called the other day.” She rummages through a desk drawer and withdraws a small silver key, which she places within my reach. “They’re in the alcove just past the security guard. The number is on the key.”

  I follow her instructions, my heart racing as I wonder what could be inside the harmless structure. Each security deposit box is small, built into the wall, and no larger than a shoebox. Nearby, other people hunch over their private sections, rummaging through their belongings before locking them away.

  When I finally gather the nerve to open my father’s box, I don’t find a glaring item labeled Evidence of Simon. In fact, the only items here to discover are a genuine diamond necklace belonging to his first wife, Bethany, who died when I was nine, and legal documents that look like they pertain to the ownership of the house and other properties. Frowning, I strain on tiptoe and slide my hand over the inside of the box. Just when I start to withdraw it, my fingers strike something soft and crinkly—a single piece of paper.

  It’s a handwritten note, but one penned hastily on official letterhead. It’s old and weathered, but I can make out the barely legible font of the city’s precinct underneath a logo. J. Mirangas, someone wrote. Age 8. Morrison, PA. 10/28.

  A wave of nausea washes over me and I have to brace my hand against the wall and close my eyes to steel myself against the onslaught. The page is a crumpled mass in my fist, but I can’t loosen my grip. I can’t even breathe.

  My name. Someone from this police department—in another state, let alone jurisdiction from my old hometown—gave Heyworth information on my case. Supposedly, he was asked to consult by the Morrison police chief. So why would another official from a city hours away have written my name down on a paper destined to collect dust in Heyworth Thorne’s private bank?

  “Miss?” The security guard outside of the alcove stands in the doorway, watching me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Forcing a smile, I return everything to the deposit box and lock it. “Can I keep the key?” I ask the girl at the front desk, who nods.

  “Sure! Access to the alcove is available twenty-four-seven,” she chirps. “Just present your ID to the guard.”

  “Any more detours, Ms. Thorne?” Julio inquires as I meet him beside the car.

  “Not at the moment,” I say while climbing into the back seat. I wait for him to reclaim the wheel before I add, “But can I trust you to keep this little trip between us?”

  Even more so now. Not because I don’t t
rust Damien with what little information I learned, but I don’t think I can say it out loud and parse its meaning. Not now. I don’t even have the energy to flip through the file he left for me, either; it’s still lying untouched on the seat.

  “We might have an agreement,” Julio says, surprising me. “But in return, I will need a favor from you.”

  “Oh?” I bite my lip, curious about what someone seemingly so loyal could want in return for deceiving his boss.

  “You may have noticed that it is…easy to forget Mr. Villa’s physical limitations,” he says. “¿Sí?”

  I nod. “He does seem fairly capable.”

  “And in some ways, it is easy to forget that he is not invincible. Human. I think even he has forgotten that at times.”

  I picture the suave, confident artist and find myself agreeing.

  “Being around you is good for him,” Julio admits. “He’s had several women he’s strung along—but you are the only one who talks to him like he is a man. The only one who punishes him when he upsets you and makes him seek your forgiveness. You challenge him, and I think he needs that more than anything. Friction. Resistance. Challenge. It makes him remember how to interact.”

  “Because he’s used to getting his way,” I surmise, recalling Chief Harrison’s not-so-subtle insinuation.

  “You see a different side of him,” he admits. “A side I’d almost forgotten existed. The other Mr. Villa…” He makes a low sound in his throat and shakes his head. “Trust me, he is a man you have not seen, and you do not want to.”

  But maybe I have. A man who sent me oleander as a warning and broke into my apartment when he assumed I’d insulted him by merely buying his painting.

  “He can be dangerous,” I say thickly. “Can’t he?”

  “Can’t we all?” He shrugs. “I like to think of him as not cruel, but transactional. So many people demand so much of him…he’s come to see the world as a game, where he must be on his guard at all times.”

  “Demand,” I echo. “Like who? His brother?” It’s a stab in the dark. One that seems to hit a bull’s-eye.

  “Mateo,” he hisses. “You’d do best to never interact with him.”

  So he isn’t aware of Mateo’s impromptu meeting after all.

  “Mateo is dangerous,” he adds. “In this world, he only sees himself. No one else.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I feel my eyebrows furrow. “As secretive as Damien is, I doubt he’d approve of his loyal bodyguard spilling even a hint of his personal life.”

  Which means that this is about more than a petty bribe for his silence.

  “Because I want you to understand,” Julio says, proving as much. “If he hurts you—Mr. Villa—and he may—don’t forgive him easily, if you decide to at all. Make him earn it. Make him feel it. I fear that may be the only way for him to learn, sí.”

  “Learn what?”

  He cocks his head to look back at me, forsaking the road. “The risk,” he says before turning away. “The risk that comes with losing something you value due to your own actions—when no amount of money in the world can salvage the damage. The only way to fix it is to open your heart.”

  “And you think he might hurt me?” I question.

  “Sí. He will—mierda!” He slams his fists onto the horn as a car cuts in front of us. Growling through his teeth, he adds, “But he will not mean to, that I am sure of. I doubt he will even realize it.”

  It’s an ominous warning. One that resonates as I watch the cityscape pass in a collage of flashing streetlights and oblivious people.

  A warning that, oddly enough, doesn’t make me feel threatened. More like…

  Resigned. Because deep down, maybe a part of me has known all along that whatever exists between me and Damien was doomed from the start. Even his brother felt obligated to warn me.

  And perhaps there is a twisted peace in that.

  Julio escorts me to the penthouse suite and ushers me inside. There, Damien is sitting in the living room, on a leather chaise positioned near the windows. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume his pensive posture was due to appreciation of the amazing view of the city bathed in amber sunlight.

  “How do you feel?” he wonders without moving from his relaxed position: legs outstretched, arms sprawled out beside him. It’s such a contrast to his usual poised rigidity that I’d smile if his expression weren’t so stern.

  “I’m fine,” I lie, placing his untouched file back where I found it this morning. Shadow drapes the cover, adding an ominous aura to the truths it may contain.

  “Your father’s condition is stable,” he says, deploying his uncanny knowledge of my every move.

  Intentionally? A hard swallow can’t displace my unease. Does Julio really intend to keep our little secret? Something I sensed in his tone holds the paranoia at bay—concern. Damien may be his employer, but he cares about him.

  “The doctors seem convinced he may recover with little complications,” Damien adds.

  “For now,” I agree, crossing the room to join him. The moment I sit, his hand finds mine, placing it on the ridge of his knee. “But there is an open investigation. They think…he may have been poisoned.”

  It feels so strange to say it out loud. So surreal. For all of my father’s obsessive paranoia, I never truly believed something like this could happen. That someone could want him dead.

  How ironic that a prime suspect might be seated beside me.

  Damien’s grip tightens as if he’s sensing my thoughts. “You can accuse me, if it helps,” he suggests, admitting as much. “But trust me when I say I did not harm your father. Not in this instance.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “This instance?”

  A muscle in his jaw lurches as he turns my hand so the palm is upright. “I may have attempted to persuade his donors away from supporting him,” he confesses. “I may have mounted an ad campaign to thwart his chances at reelection. And I may be funding his opposition…”

  “But?” I prompt, sensing one.

  A sudden tightness hardens his expression. “But I would never kill him.”

  And I want to believe that, more than I have the right to.

  “You did not read the file,” he adds, catching me off guard.

  “I…”

  “I’m not insulted,” he says. “It’s funny. Something told me you wouldn’t.”

  “Because I need to hear it from you.” I shift, gently detangling my hand from his. In the same motion, I run my fingers along his jaw, amazed at just how welcoming he can feel. Beneath the cold, sometimes ominous demeanor, he’s silk under my fingertips, a wealth of contradictions. “So tell me. What happened to Mathias?”

  “We should start with Emily Borgetta,” he suggests, tilting his chin into my touch. “A beautiful, if flirtatious, young girl with a wealth of besotted suitors at her disposal. Heirs to various fortunes, diplomats, the son of a police chief, even. As the daughter of a prominent businessman, the world was at her disposal. At least until the day she was found murdered in her apartment, possibly raped. Nothing was stolen, therefore making the crime far more heinous: personal in nature.”

  “Your brother was the only suspect,” I say, scouring what few shreds of information I know about the case. “They were dating.”

  “He wasn’t the only suspect.” As if settling in for a long story, Damien rearranges himself, leaning back into the cushions of the chaise. His hand finds mine again, gripping tighter in a subtle way that warns I won’t break free easily. “She had other suitors. Other men in her life who were questioned. But Mathias was the only one arrested, the poor malparido immigrant—at least that’s what the reporters crowed. Even if he was a citizen as much as the rest. Even if there was no DNA linking him to the crime. No real conclusive evidence. Out of the rich, white suspects, he had the brownest skin.”

  “But there was enough there that a jury found him guilty,” I point out.

  “Guilty,” he agrees. “But tell me why the expert witness
who could testify as to the validity of the lack of DNA was barred from testifying? Why evidence of Emily Borgetta’s phone records and a list of her prior lovers weren’t allowed into evidence? Why the fact that Mathias had been questioned for nearly forty-eight hours straight in a nonstop barrage by the police department was not allowed to be presented in front of the jury?” He pauses, letting every bitter accusation sink in.

  “Why not?” I ask, hating a part of me that already knows the answer.

  “Every decision in that aspect was up to one person who consistently ruled against the interest of Mathias: Heyworth Thorne. His reasons are difficult to parse, but I believe that it was for personal gain. Someone powerful had an interest in closing the murder case quickly. Mathias was an easy scapegoat and Heyworth Thorne the willing pawn.”

  “I want to deny that, but…” I swallow hard, eyeing the city beyond this room. “But I think I’m starting to wonder if my adoption was more than a merciful whim on his part. What if he picked me because…” God I can’t even say it. My fingers tremble in his grip, and I rake my free hand through my hair, twisting the strands. “What if he’s the reason Simon was always able to find me on my birthday? What if he gave him access to me? What if all this time—”

  “You’re upsetting yourself,” Damien warns. His thumb traces my cheek, capturing the tears he shouldn’t be able to sense.

  I’m not sobbing openly for once. I’m just…numb.

  “Diane wants me to fill in for him at a benefit gala,” I croak. “She wants me to smile, and pretend, and reassure his donors in his absence. She wants me to lie for him, but I’m not sure if I can.”

  “The Wellington gala?” he wonders, unsurprisingly correct. “Ironic in a way. Gerald Wellington was nothing more than an odd recluse who had an obsession with ‘purity.’ He seemed to think that there was no such thing as innocence. That even the most sheltered and pure harbored dark intentions. One merely need magnify them.”

  “I haven’t heard that assessment,” I admit. Racking my brain, I don’t think I ever met the man in person. Just watched my father attend every gala. “He never made me attend that particular event though. Maybe he knew the irony as well?” I try to laugh, but the sound trickles out far too softly.