The little bitch was running scared. Stavros Aristides watched the camera feed on his laptop, his fingers clasped under his chin. It had been child’s play hiring an underpaid and desperate PI, willing to bend the rules, and plant surveillance cameras around the Sloanes’ property.
Watching the look on the little trollop’s face when she’d spotted the Bimini Jack’s glass the PI had planted—priceless. She’d trembled so sweetly, probably even more than when Danny toyed with her.
Danny. My precious son.
It was her fault he was gone. Her fault that he’d had to run for his life, leaving behind most of the things it had taken a lifetime to accumulate. He had to skitter away from the New Orleans Police, inept bumblers who couldn’t find their asses if he drew an arrow pointing to them. They were too stupid, never coming close to catching him—until the little harlot ruined everything.
He’d known she was trouble from the second she’d walked through the door, hanging on his son’s arm like some streetwalker he’d picked up for the night. Too bad she hadn’t been a puta, because then he could have taken care of her, no muss, no fuss.
But no, Danny started spouting nonsense, professing his love for the kariola. He wanted to keep her. Marry her. It would never happen—he couldn’t allow his son to wed a whore. Especially a whore who could have him thrown into prison for the remainder of his life.
No. He’d never have allowed it—he’d had bigger plans for his son. Grooming him, teaching him the business, even going so far as to make arrangements to marry into a wealthy Greek family in New York and expand the business. Life had been perfect—until he had become infatuated with the stupid schoolgirl. She was responsible for the collapse of everything, even if that damned cop had been the one to shoot Danny dead. That bastard was next on his list, right after he took care of the elusive Ms. Sloane.
The PI he’d hired might be ethically challenged, but the man was damned good at his job. He’d managed to plant a program on her computer, which activated the camera, and he could watch every move she made within her bedroom, as long as the computer was turned on.
Right now, she sat on her frilly pink and white bed, chewing on her nails. A nasty, dirty habit, he’d have her break it if he’d kept her. Through narrowed eyes he watched her, chuckling with unrestrained delight. There was a thought—keep the whore alive and get his pound of flesh. He smiled, letting the idea percolate.
What a sweet revenge indeed for his dead son, taking the self-righteous female who’d caused his death and making her pay. Every single day. With blood and tears.
If he played his cards right, she’d soon be within his grasp once again, and this time there’d be no more Mister Nice Guy.