Game of Lies

Book 3: Game of Shadows

by Amanda K. Byrne

Genres: Romance; New Adult Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

The ties that bind, the vengeance that severs… Cass Turner, promising UCLA student, is gone. All that remains now is Cass the rogue assassin. Her target: all those who’ve sworn their loyalty to Isaiah, a man so ruthless Cass won’t find peace until he’s destroyed. Yet Cass’s brazen killing spree has driven a wedge between her and the man she loves. As a lieutenant in LA’s largest crime family, Nick Kosta has his own reasons for wanting Isaiah dead. But if Cass continues to play by her own rules, she'll have to choose between Nick and getting even. When her one chance at the ultimate revenge is snatched away, Cass's world begins to fall apart. Now they’re going to play by Nick’s rules—even if it means betraying her trust. Because the danger to their lives, and their future, is far from over. But with the body count rising, and a target on Nick’s back, Cass will have to find a way to unearth the lies that surround the Kostas and find the killer in their midst...before it’s too late.

Release date: January 3, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 213

Sample

 

This place is a prison.

I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and don’t bother with any of the lights. It would only illuminate the chaos. Cleaning the apartment after the mess Josef and I made is pointless. Once I’ve finished what I’ve set out to do, I’ll be leaving it.

For now, it’s my prison. One of my own making. I don’t have to be here. I could have stuck with the plan. A single day, multiple hits, crippling Isaiah’s little uprising where it would hurt the most.

Then he decided to balance the scales by killing my father right in front of me. So. Here I am. Carving away little pieces of his infrastructure every day, and every night I come back here because it’s familiar. I know every creak, every whisper of sound. If I have to be constantly on guard, I want to do it in a place where there are no surprises.

I pull open the fridge for the pitcher of water and see my dinner sitting on the middle shelf. Nothing fancy, just a sandwich and a salad from the deli a few blocks over. Last night it was Chinese. There were leftovers when I went to bed last night, so Nick must have eaten them when he brought the sandwich by.

I snag the food and bump the door shut with my hip, then set everything on the counter before pulling out my phone. It powers on in silent mode, vibrating once in my hand as the screen flashes to life. One new text and several voicemails. I ignore them and call my mother.

The answering machine picks up, same as it has for the last thirteen calls. “Hi, Mom. It’s Cass. Can you pick up today? Please?” I asked the same thing on my previous calls; she never does. I stifle a sigh and give her another few seconds of silence. “I’ll be by tomorrow. You can tell me if you need anything when I see you.” I swallow hard. “I love you,” I whisper. “I miss you.”

I hang up before I break and bite into the sandwich. Turkey with avocado. The man’s a quick study. Tell him once that turkey sandwiches are always better with avocado, and he makes sure it’s on every one I eat.

I dial in for my voicemails and listen to them on speaker while I work my way through the salad.

“Cass, it’s Denise. Um. I hope everything’s okay. Nick called me the other day and said you were, but I still want to hear it from you. I wish there was something I could do. Just…call me, okay?”

Maybe someday when I feel more like a person than a machine, I can talk to her again. But I have to use this numbness while I can. I’m not ready to let it go yet. I delete her message and fork up more lettuce. I’ll text her in the morning. That I can do, and I owe her that much.

There’s a message from Lia, her voice timid in a way I’ve never heard from her, asking if there was anything she can do. Another from Con, telling me to come back, the guest room isn’t the same without me.

But nothing from Nick.

In a life full of ghosts, he’s become the newest one. The food is one way I know he’s been in my apartment. Sandwiches, soup, a new box of cereal, a small carton of milk. Have to keep my strength up.

I wonder if I’ll see him before I fall asleep.

I ball up my trash and toss it into the garbage can, then wander to the couch and switch on the lamp. Another sign Nick’s been here—the box holding my cleaning materials is closed up and moved to a corner of the coffee table. I used the whetstone this morning and forgot to put it away. I won’t need them tonight. Today’s marks were pretty clean, both dosed with potassium chloride. No blood to wash off.

I pull up my pant legs, unstrap the knife sheaths from around my ankles, and set them on the table in front of me. Slumping into the cushions, I tip my head back and shut my eyes, letting the exhaustion drag me down.

Revenge is tiring. It’s this physically, emotionally, mentally demanding monstrosity that swears it’s only looking out for me and wants me to be happy. It’s a fucking liar. Sometimes I picture it standing in a corner, snickering at me. Because as demanding as it is, it responds with a kick of adrenaline every time I get a step closer. Can’t give up now, Cass. Can’t give up after you’ve taken out two men in one day.

Only five more to go.

Rubbing my temples, I sit up and glance over at the door. Locked, of course. He won’t come to me while I’m still awake. Lucky for him, I’m about ready to keel over.

I make my way to the bathroom and strip, turn on the water as hot as I can stand, then let it stream over me as the steamy heat fills the small space. Nine men down. Five left at the top of Isaiah’s hierarchy, not counting him. Tris, his shadow, will be the most difficult. I’ve spent most of my spare time trying to find a way to get him alone, but he’s either at Isaiah’s side or surrounded by his fellow SWAT team members.

I blink away the water dripping into my eyes. Maybe that’s the solution. Maybe I should be focusing on the time Isaiah’s alone rather than trying to take out Tris. He usually leaves Isaiah with another guy when he has to go into work, but Isaiah doesn’t seem to have much confidence in the other guy; he won’t leave his latest base of operations without his shadow.

My brain ramps back up, pushing aside the dregs of fatigue as it tries to find a solution to this problem. I get out of the shower and dry off, annoyed with myself. Now I’ll never get to sleep. I have to get to sleep.

Sleep is when I see him.

It’s the one time of day I let my guard down because he’s there, surrounding me, making it possible to catch a few hours of rest. Those scant hours, four, five at a time, give me the strength I need to keep going.

We don’t talk. Or I don’t, anyway. Occasionally he’ll whisper to me in the dark. Tells me he loves me. Asks if I’m all right, even knowing I won’t respond. Not with words. Because the truth is I’m not all right. I haven’t been for a while, and Turner’s death only made it worse.

I ignore the goose bumps prickling my skin and braid my wet hair back. If I’m lucky, it won’t come loose during the night. Those are the nights he holds me tight enough I can’t move, the faint cinnamon scent of his soap lulling me to sleep.

I force myself to pick up my clothes and take them with me to the bedroom. I dump them into the hamper before I crawl into bed. The light’s still on in the living room, but he’ll turn it off when he comes in. I pull the covers up over my shoulders, shut my eyes, and settle in to wait.

The nightmares come first. They always do. Fragments of the moment I discovered Turner, bound to a chair with a gun to his head. Those horrifying seconds when I stare at my mother’s battered face. Scott’s pale skin as he realizes he’s been shot. Nick’s terror that I’m trapped in his house as fire eats away at the walls.

“Cassidy.”

With a shudder, I strain toward his voice. He repeats my name, my full name, not the quick and easy “Cass.” I roll over and grope blindly, swallowing a sob when my hands connect with warm skin. I scoot toward him, not stopping until my face is buried in his neck, his heartbeat sure under my palm.

Nick.

He wants me to stop. Wants me to come home despite the fact we don’t have one. It’s there in the way he holds me, in those murmured words I can’t always understand. I won’t go with him, and he knows it. So this is the compromise he’s reached. Every night, wrapped together in my old bed, and then he sneaks out in the pre-dawn light to leave me alone.

I need more tonight. I need him everywhere, anchoring me, letting me fly. I need to forget. I want to lose myself in him. We sleep naked. It’s never been a conscious taunt on my part, but the skin-to-skin contact is soothing. Tonight, I did it on purpose.

He murmurs a soft protest as I trail my mouth up the side of his throat, the stubble on his jaw rough against my lips. But he kisses me willingly, eagerly, as needy as I am for this connection.

It’s like a circuit coming online. The instant our mouths connect, my body lights up and my brain says yes. Legs tangling together, hips rocking, his tongue strokes mine, and I dig my nails into his shoulders, ready for more.

He loosens his hold and I whimper, afraid he’s pulling away. “Let me touch you, love,” he whispers.

Touch. We’re practically glued together, but our hands can’t slip between our bodies, explore all those places we found before. I ease back, my skin cooling instantly with the distance, but heat flares once again when he tweaks a nipple.

I lose track of time. My world consists of Nick’s hands and mouth on my skin, his low groans and shudders, warm darkness, and a strange, sweet tenderness I hoard for later. He props my leg on his hip and plunges into me, then rolls me onto my back and pins me to the mattress.

I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I wrap my limbs around him and hold on tight, his weight a comfort. Stroke after slow, shallow stroke, I climb with him, my mouth on any part of him I can reach. And when I finally break apart, he’s not far behind, leaving a rush of heat and love.

I moan quietly and reach for him as he shifts away, not comforted at all by the kiss he places on my palm. He leaves me huddled in the bed, slick between my thighs and listening to his movements, hoping he won’t leave but unable to tell him not to go.

The mattress dips behind me, and I turn over to see him sitting by my hip, washcloth in hand. Oh. Right. Sex is a messy business, and the smart thing would have been to get out of bed and clean up. Instead, he brings the cleanup to me.

After, he slides in beside me, skin to skin, my body warm and loose. “I miss you,” I mumble, lips moving over his collarbone.

He glides his hand up my spine and cups the back of my head. “It’s time to come home, Cass.” His chest rumbles with the words. “Time to stop. Come home with me.”

I hold him tighter because I know in the morning he’ll be gone.

 

 

 

He’s still here.

Don’t ask me how I know this. We haven’t been together long enough for me to have developed that mythical sixth sense of knowing when my boyfriend is in the same space as me, but he’s here. A giddy bubble of happiness rises, then pops when I remember my task for the day: eliminate crony number five.

The walls come back up, the shields slam down, and I get out of bed and pull on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I tug the band from the bottom of my braid as I walk out of my bedroom.

Nick’s on the couch, dressed in jeans and a dark blue button-up with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. “You look like shit,” I say, working my fingers through the remains of my braid.

He does. Despite the tidiness of his appearance, there are lines digging in around his mouth and between his brows. His hair has progressed beyond the casually messy stage and into the unkempt stage. But it’s his eyes that threaten to break me. They’re as weary-looking as I feel. If the hours of solid sleep I manage are few, his must be fewer, given he wakes before I do and steals out of my apartment.

“You don’t look much better.” He stands and gestures to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

I nod. “This is a change. You’re usually gone when I wake up.” Braid finally undone, I duck into the bathroom, retrieve my hairbrush, and run it through my hair, wincing as it snags on a few tangles. I pull it into a ponytail and step back into the living room, murmuring my thanks when Nick hands me a mug of coffee.

“Circumstances necessitated the change. We can do this two ways—the easy way or the hard way.” He swallows coffee and takes his seat on the couch. “You have to stop, Cass.”

I arch a brow as I sip my coffee. “I assume this must be the hard way you’re referring to? Talking me out of it? Isaiah’s still alive, Nick. I’m not stopping now.”

“You’ve done plenty of damage on your own in the last two weeks,” he agrees. “But some of the families are asking questions, and while we’ve gotten to most of the bodies in time, there were a couple discovered before we could take care of them.”

“And the police can’t bury the cases?” Clean up isn’t in my wheelhouse, and while I did my best to take out my targets in concealed spaces, it wasn’t always possible. Leaving Nick to deal with my fallout is a selfish move on my part.

It’s eating at me from the inside out.

“Our pull with LAPD only goes so far. You go after Tris, and we’ll have none.”

“Actually, I think I have a way around that.” Worried by the sudden weakness in my legs, I make my way to the opposite end of the couch. Guess I didn’t sleep as well as I thought I did. I gulp more coffee. “Whenever Tris has to report for work, he leaves another guy with Isaiah, but I get the feeling Isaiah doesn’t trust him. He won’t leave his safe house until Tris returns.” I lean forward and set my mug on the table. My hands are starting to shake, and I’d rather not burn myself. “If I can get inside the safe house, or get Isaiah out without Tris dogging him, I can end this.” I dig my nails into the side of my thigh. The pain is a weak, brief flash that does nothing to overtake the encroaching fatigue.

“It doesn’t matter, Cass. You’ve lost the family’s backing. Any more bodies turn up, they won’t help you hide them.” He sighs and places his mug on the table.

I scrub my hands over my face. “So I refocus on Isaiah. That’s fine. Another week, it’ll all be over.” My head is heavy. I turn sideways and rest it on the back of the couch.

He shifts around to face me, the weariness in his gaze absolute. “That’s just it. I can’t run damage control for you any longer. You don’t get another week. My father, Con’s father, they’re not disagreeing something needs to be done, or even the way it’s being done. You changed the plan, and no one knows where you’re going to hit next. That’s what they object to.”

Goddamn patriarchy. “I’d rather hit first, apologize later.” I’ll come up with a different plan. Tris doesn’t strike me as a leader. It’ll take the remaining five men some time to figure out how—or if—they’re going to continue with this little revolution.

Why am I so fucking tired?

He shakes his head. “You don’t have a choice in this matter anymore.” My eyelids droop as he stands, jostling the cushions. I can’t even lift my head as he bends over me, lips brushing a kiss across my temple. “I’m sorry, Cass,” he whispers.

Sorry? What’s he sorry for? I try to ask him, but all I manage is an unintelligible mumble. Every part of me feels like it’s encased in cement, the battle to stay awake a losing one.

Sorry.

The coffee.

He slides one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, and I want to hit him.

The bastard drugged my coffee.

* * * *

This bed is not mine. It’s not one of Nick’s, and it’s not the bed in Constantine’s guest room. I push my nose into the pillow.

It’s too clean.

I slit open an eye. There’s a table beside the bed with a small lamp and a bottle of water. I reach out to grab the water and stop.

Coffee.

Drugs.

My boyfriend drugged me.

I shoot up in bed fast enough to trigger a dull, aching throb behind my eyes, and I squeeze them shut. Whatever Nick doped me with has given me a headache and a mouth desperately in need of water. After several deep breaths, the throbbing fades to a manageable level, and I open my eyes again.

The room is dim. Light’s coming in from somewhere, and I twist around to find the source. High windows line the wall behind the bed. The room itself is long and kind of narrow, the walls white. Other than the bed and the table, the only other furniture is a tall cabinet in the corner.

I push aside the blankets—how considerate of Nick to make sure I was comfortable while I was unconscious—and plant my feet on the floor. At some point, he took off my pants, and the air in the room is cool enough to make me shiver. My legs hold me up, so I walk to the cabinet and pull open the doors.

Why are my clothes hanging in here? I tug on a sleeve and frown. I left most of my clothing at Constantine’s. Flipping through the hangers, it looks like all my clothes have been moved here. What’s not hanging up is in the shallow drawers below. I snag a pair of fleece pants I haven’t seen before and pull them on, then head for the door.

Nick earns back a point when the knob turns easily in my hand. I half expected him to have me locked in the room. I step onto what appears to be a catwalk and peer over the railing to the floor below.

It’s a warehouse.

Nick’s got me in a warehouse.

Granted, it’s a small-ish warehouse. The floor below is mostly covered in mats, though one quarter of the space holds free weights, a couple of cardio machines, and other random exercise equipment.

I study the length of the catwalk. The room I’m in is on one end. I open the door next to my room, a groan of relief escaping when I see it’s a bathroom. Even if the bottle on the nightstand is sealed, I don’t trust it. I wash my hands, turn the hot water to cold, and cup them under the stream.

I drink.

And drink.

And drink.

Water dribbles down my chin, trailing along my neck, but I don’t care. Whatever the hell Nick put in my coffee dried my mouth out worse than the Mojave.

When I’ve finally drunk my fill, I fumble a towel free of the rack and wipe the water from my face. Then I go back to the room, find a pair of shoes, and head for the stairs at the other end of the catwalk.

If he’s around, he must be in one of the other two rooms because the main level is empty. There’s a wide set of double sliding doors on the far side of the warehouse and a sturdy-looking metal bar secured with a heavy lock across them.

Beside me is a single door with a bright green sign overhead that reads EXIT. I glance up at the catwalk and step toward the door.

This one is locked. I study the deadbolt for a moment. It must lock from the outside. Which means either anyone outside can unlock it or Nick had a double-sided deadbolt put in. Dangerous in the event of an emergency. Perfect if you want to keep someone prisoner.

“You can have your own key when I’m confident you won’t try to escape.”

“Your trust in me is overwhelming,” I say flatly, glaring at the door. I turn around and scan the lower level. I missed the kitchen area spread out under the catwalk. He’s lounging against a counter, bottle of water next to his elbow.

“Preemptive strike.” His voice is just as flat. “You and I both know you wouldn’t have come willingly. It was either drug you or wrestle you to the ground and handcuff you, and there was still a risk you’d get away.” He flashes a sharp smile. “You’re wily like that.”

I give the door a hard thump with the side of my fist and stalk to the middle of the mats. I kick off my shoes and drop to the floor. “Your diplomatic skills need work. You have no way of knowing I wouldn’t have agreed with you.”

He pushes off the counter and strides across the room. My breath hitches as he drops to his knees in front of me. “If you expect me to apologize for what I’ve done, you’ll be waiting a fucking long time.” Lightning fast, his mouth is on mine, hot and firm and gone in the next blink. “You’re not doing this alone,” he says softly. “You were never supposed to.”

I will not scoot back. I will not be the first to retreat. I absolutely will not hit him, no matter how much he deserves it. “I was always supposed to do this alo. . .