Page 11 of Merciless Heir

But I know what it means.

Raven.

Somehow, someway, Sadie is tangled with my mother.

I’ll keep that to myself.

But I’m going to keep an eye on Sadie Hess.

Real close.

And I’m going to find out the truth.

Chapter Four

Sadie

I’m so bored I’m thinking of stealing something, just to keep my sanity.

Not even the hilarious light pop band pretending at jazz can rid me of the boredom. And the view from the eightieth floor of the modern and over priced sky mansion wore off after about thirty seconds.

It’s been three days since I saw Kingston. There hasn’t been more than an hour pass without memory of those kisses turning my stomach into a sudden rollercoaster of thrills.

Of all the stupid things I’ve done in a lifetime of stupid, that one might top them all. Because curiosity and giving into certain urges come with hefty price tags.

I’m not ever doing it again. Even if the thought of doing so burns a path of erotic need inside.

Christ, I think the band is jazzing up some old school Madonna. I wouldn’t mind, but they truly suck. A rich person’s idea of cutting edge.

These soirees are always boring, but this crowd of self-entitled mega rich get under my skin. I’m betting not one person here has held a real job, known what it’s like to decide between food and rent—who am I kidding? Make that Balenciaga and opera tickets.

I’m here doing a job the run of the mill security services out there could have done. They live among the clouds with a bird’s eye view of the park and Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the rest from the other windows in this tower with a doorman who trained at Fort Knox protection detail. So slap some state-of-the-art security on the triplex, hone their insurance, and call it a day.

Instead, they want a gossip piece, they want the Raven. They want me. They want the glamor of notoriety. Of picking over whether I’m the real deal, work for the real deal, or just someone who slapped a similar name on a shingle and dropped a few pointed hints and things anyone who followed it all would know.

It doesn’t matter to them. The risqué gleam of the idea does.

I fucking hate my life.

Still, it makes me more money when I did steal and in places like this, someone with skill would be robbing them blind of the best pieces and they wouldn’t know.

I make small talk but mostly keep to myself.

Kingston’s watch flitters across my mind. It’s real, of course it is. And it’s stunning. Worth a few million, not one of the top of the line Breguets, but I like it more than some of the ones with the double digit million dollar tags.

“Sally.” Jemima Mao comes up and holds two coupe champagne glasses filled with the odious bubbles, and she presses one in my hand. I take it. “What are your thoughts?”

“On the party? Security or the view?”

“Oh.” The petite dark-haired beauty waves a hand. “Security.”

“I have some thoughts.”

Her eyes go round and I point out things anyone can, like a new system that upgrades easily some different excellent private response teams in the area. And how insurance is of the utmost importance.

I feel like a vacuum salesperson.

“Did you—”