“The recordings of Vittoria Russo. Where are they stored?” Bruno asks before I get ahead of myself. I don’t know how he can keep such a level head when dealing with slime like this.

“Main server.”

“Where is that?” I ask.

He points at a door, and I shove him toward it. He opens it, and there is a bigger than expected main server.

“Erase them.”

“Even if I erased mine, her father would have had copies.”

Fuck. “Anyone else?”

He shakes his head.

“Good. Erase them. In fact, erase all the sessions you recorded.”

“I need them for my practice.”

I slam his head into the wall to knock some sense into him, then right him and make him look at me. “Erase the fucking files or I’ll erase you.”

He nods frantically and glances at Bruno, who is still meticulously laying out photo after damning photo. I’m not sure how he obtained those, but that’s why he gets paid what he gets paid. Tilbury pushes some buttons on the server, and I watch as file after file is deleted. When it’s finished, I aim my gun at the box and empty the magazine into it. Tilbury screams as if I were shooting him.

The door opens, and the two men who just left rush back in. Bruno picks up his briefcase, and we walk toward the door.

“Excuse us,” I say, pistol in my hand at my side. It’s empty, but they don’t know that.

“Those photographs have just been delivered electronically to the authorities. You may want to make yourselves scarce, gentlemen,” Bruno says.

They look at each other, glance at the photos, and turn to rush out. I don’t look back as Bruno and I walk out of that building and drive off the grounds, feeling like I need to bleach my fucking skin after that encounter.

Bleach.

Fuck.

Vittoria.

This explains things. It explains everything.

15

VITTORIA

I wake up alone feeling groggy and even more exhausted after a restless night. I’m confused as I look around the unfamiliar surroundings. Light filters in from around the edges of the heavy drapes, and I roll onto my back to look up at the ceiling, then at the empty space beside me. I touch a hand to the pillow.

Remembering last night makes me flush hot with embarrassment. He rejected me. But I’m not sure what I was thinking by practically mounting him. I’d had the nightmare again and given the events of the day, I don’t know. It messed with me even more than usual, and I didn’t want to be alone.

I get out of bed quickly—too quickly because a dizzy spell hits, and I have to hold the nightstand as the room momentarily tilts, then rights itself.