Damian had definitely inherited his mother’s flair for decorating and dramatic spaces. The office was enormous, taking up a good chunk of this corner of the mansion. The decidedly masculine area was full of dark brown leather chairs and couches nestled alongside wide, heavy tables covered with all sorts of expensive knickknacks. Porcelain vases, crystal figurines, wooden carvings, stone statues. All perfectly in place and all perfectly highlighted by the three gold-plated chandeliers dangling from the ceiling.

   But the centerpiece of the office was the freestanding bar that took up one entire wall, complete with several padded barstools lined up in front of it. A wide variety of liquor bottles perched prettily on the wooden shelves behind the bar, along with rows of glassware. I eyed the bottles, recognizing them all as being well out of my price range, but they fit right in with the rest of the luxe furnishings. The air reeked of expensive cologne and even more expensive cigar smoke, adding to the gentlemen’s club feel of Damian’s lair, and I had to wrinkle my nose to hold back a sneeze.

   But I wasn’t here to sightsee or gawk at the expensive furnishings, so I moved over to the large desk that stood in the back of the room near the window that I’d just slithered through. To my disappointment, the golden wood was spotless, as though it had never been touched, much less actually used, and not so much as a pen or paper clip littered the gleaming surface. Then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Damian Rivera didn’t have to do something as common as work. From what I knew of him, his favorite hobbies were drinking, smoking, shopping for antiques, and flitting from one mistress to the next. Not necessarily in that order.

   Still, I’d come here to search for information about the Circle, so I opened all the drawers and tapped all around the desk, searching for hidden compartments. But the drawers were empty, except for some stacks of cocktail napkins and paper coasters, and no secret hidey-holes were carved into the wood.

   Strike one.

   Since nothing was in the desk, I moved over to the bar, searching the shelves underneath it, as well as the glass ones behind it. But all I found were more napkins and coasters, along with several sterling-silver martini shakers and other old-fashioned, drink-making accoutrements.

   Strike two.

   Frustration surged through me, but I forced myself to stay calm and search the rest of the office. I ran my hands over all the furniture, looking for any secret compartments. Examined all the vases, carvings, and statues for false bottoms. Tapped on the walls, searching for hidden panels. I even rolled back the thick rugs and used my magic to listen to the flagstones, just in case a safe was hidden in the floor.

   But there was nothing. No secret compartments, no hidden panels, no floor safes.

   Strike three, and I was out.

   More frustration surged through me, mixed with even more disappointment, both of which burned through my veins like acid. A couple of weeks ago, I’d found several safety-deposit boxes full of information on the Circle that my mentor, Fletcher Lane, had compiled. Fletcher had only photos of the group’s members, but it had been easy enough for me to get their names, since many of them were such wealthy, prominent citizens.

   I’d scouted several of the Circle members, and Damian Rivera had been the easiest target with the least amount of security. So I’d broken in here tonight in hopes of learning more about the group, especially the identity of the mystery man who headed the organization, the bastard who’d ordered my mother’s murder. But maybe there was a reason that Rivera’s security was so lax. Maybe he wasn’t as important or as involved with the Circle as I’d thought.

   Still frustrated, I turned to the fireplace that took up most of the wall across from the bar. I’d already searched that area for loose stones and secret compartments and had come up empty. So this time I pulled out my phone and carefully snapped shots of all the framed photos propped up on the mantel, hoping that one of them might hold some small clue.

   Not only did Damian Rivera love the finer things in life but he also loved himself, since most of the photos were softly lit glamour shots showing off his wavy black hair, bronze skin, dark brown eyes, and startlingly white teeth. Rivera was in his prime in his early thirties, and he was an exceptionally handsome man—and a thoroughly disgusting individual, even by Ashland’s admittedly low, low standards.

   Not only was Rivera a trust-fund baby, living off his family’s wealth, who’d never worked a day in his life, but he’d also never faced any consequences for any of the despicable things he’d done.

   And he had done plenty of despicable things.

   Silvio Sanchez, my personal assistant, had only been looking into Rivera for a few days, but he’d already found several arrests, mostly for DUIs, stretching all the way back to when Rivera was a teenager. Damian also had some serious anger-management issues, and he’d beaten more than one girlfriend over the years, servants too, and had even put a couple of them in the hospital with broken bones and other serious injuries.

   But all of that was nothing compared to the woman he’d killed.

   One night during his college years, Rivera had gotten into his fancy SUV and decided to see how fast he could drunkenly steer around Ashland’s mountain roads. He’d come around one curve, crossed the center lane, and plowed head-on into a sedan being driven by a single mother of two. She’d died instantly, but Rivera had walked away from the crash with minor injuries. He’d never been charged in the woman’s death, thanks to his mother, who’d pulled all the right strings and paid off all the right people to cover the whole thing up.

   But Rivera hadn’t learned his lesson. He hadn’t learned anything, since he’d been arrested for another DUI on New Year’s Eve. But he wouldn’t face any consequences for that one either. His mama was long dead, but Damian still had someone to clean up his messes—Bruce Porter, a dwarf who’d been the Rivera family’s head of security for years.

   I stopped in front of a photo that showed Maria Rivera, a beautiful woman with long, wavy, golden hair, dark eyes, and red lips. In the photo, she was smiling and standing in between Damian and his father, Richard ­Rivera, with a dour-looking Bruce Porter hovering behind them in the distance. I raised my phone and snapped a shot of the picture—