“I have to be able to trust you, Mark. I need to know that no matter what, you’re in this. One hundred percent.”

Mark stands. “I will find the information I need with or without you. I think if we work together, we’ll accomplish a hell of a lot more and a lot faster. Trust works both ways. How do I know the CIA isn’t somehow involved in this? What if you’re trying to gather something from me? I don’t know if you are, so I have to trust you. You’re not the only one taking a risk, but answer me this . . .” He seems to weigh his words. “You know everything about me, I’m sure. You know how long I was a SEAL, my service record, the medals I’ve been awarded, and the people I’ve killed, but what do I know about you?”

“Nothing,” I answer, because he’s right. “It’s meant to be that way.”

“Exactly. So again I ask, who is taking the real risk?”

“We both are.”

“Wrong answer,” he says and turns to head out the door.

“What are you doing?”

He stops at the threshold. “Leaving. When you’re ready to tell me everything, no holds barred, feel free to call me. Until then, good luck, Charlie.”

My mind is at war. I have choices, we all do, but hesitation isn’t something I have time for. Mark is my best shot at having someone smart, cunning, and ready to do whatever needs to be done for answers. He won’t flinch if we have to do something unethical.

The choice is mine, and maybe I’m playing into his hands. Maybe he isn’t being transparent, but my gut says he is. “Stop,” I command. “I’d rather save you another trip here.”

He turns, walks back in the room, and resumes his last location. Mark doesn’t gloat or rub it in my face. Instead, he sits quietly and waits.

I turn on the monitors behind the one-way mirror, press the button that engages the steel door, effectively locking us in and ensuring no one can overhear, and activate the high frequency noise in case someone planted bugs. The trap door under my desk opens and I pull the file out.

“You’re going to share the name of your decorator,” Mark jokes.

I can’t say I don’t enjoy the awe in his eyes. I have more safeguards in this space than anyone could guess. But I needed a place where I could escape, hide, and sometimes lock myself away. “You’re not high enough on the food chain.”

“I joined the wrong government agency.”

“It’s okay. I’ll let you look at my toys.”

His gaze shifts to my breasts.

“I’ll play with them, too.” His green eyes deepen. “Your toys, that is.”

“Sure, that’s what you meant.”

He shrugs as if it was only natural to be caught staring. “They’re eye level.”

I shake my head and sit next to him. It’s time to get to work. Each minute we spend doing this is a minute my finish line gets farther away. “So, how much do you know about Al Mazir and the cell that held Aaron?”

“I know this isn’t the first time I’m hearing that name.” Mark’s voice is smooth as glass.

“Well, allow me to enlighten you.”

“First, I need to know something.”

“What?”

“What’s your first name?”

“Not on your life, Dixon.”

“You look gorgeous, darling,” my mother appraises as I enter the ballroom. I’m a little late, so I expect the zings to start very soon. It’s not within her to hold back.

“Not nearly as breathtaking as you.”

She pushes the orange satin between her palms. “It was your father’s favorite color.”

The one trait I share with my mother is her love of clothing—especially designer fashion. Priscilla Erickson doesn’t dress in anything cheap. Her purses are all coveted, and don’t even get me started on the shoes. I’ve requested all of them be left to me in her will. I could sleep in her closet and be happy.

My dress is a deep navy-blue silk ball gown. It has thin spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline, which I had to tape to ensure I don’t have a wardrobe malfunction. But the back is where the magic happens. The hemline has a small train—the entire reason I bought the dress—and there’s practically no material all the way down to my butt. It’s luxurious and sexy, yet it still appears classy. To finish it off, I wore my strappy gold heels.

“Your hair would’ve been better up.” Zing number one is out of the way.

“I thought it would be better down, but thanks for the suggestion.”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to show off your neckline,” she continues. “You’d look so much prettier if we could see your blue eyes. But you keep them covered by your bangs.”

I sigh and close my eyes. I wish we could just stop. She’s all I have other than Dominic. We don’t have a large extended family. Both my parents were only children, and my grandparents passed away before I was old enough to remember them. But my mother insists on keeping me at arm’s length.

“Mother.” My knight in shining armor appears.

“Dominic!” she squeals in delight. “You look positively perfect. Unlike some people.”

Zing number two. I’ve got at least four more to go.

“As do you.” He smirks knowingly. Bastard. “Hello, my gorgeous sister. Kill anyone today?”

“Only you in my dreams,” I snicker playfully.

If looks could kill, Dominic would’ve never lived past his eighth birthday. He chose not to follow into the family business. Instead, he’s in politics, the equivalent to killing people to our father. He wanted to make a difference, a real one, he said. I believe he knew he couldn’t hack it in the CIA, which is unfounded, but it helps me tolerate his choices.

Dominic laughs and leans in to place a kiss on my cheek. “You owe me.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“Come,” Mother calls our attention. “Charisma, I expect you to behave like the antiquities dealer you are. None of your bullstuff tonight.”

“Shit, Mother. The word you’re looking for is shit.”

“Watch your mouth!” she chastises me. “And where is your date? I told you not to show up to this party alone.”

“I left him at the morgue.”

“You’re going to send me to my grave.”

It’s so easy. However, I earned myself some more zings.

Our mother gives us both a look, turns, and heads into the ballroom, which is the indicator that we should follow. Like the good, obedient children we are, we do. Dominic and I smirk at each other while we play the part we’ve been groomed for. Being socialites hasn’t always been easy, but together we created games to make it fun.

“Ten bucks each time someone tells you that you look like Dad.” I try to get him to bite. I’ll make at least a grand if he takes it.

“Five,” he counter offers. “And five each time someone tells you that you should really eat more.”

“Done.”

No one will ever say that to me. They don’t think women can ever be too skinny. If anything, they’ll tell me I should really start seeing their personal trainer, whom they’re probably screwing on the side.