Stolen Fortune, Stolen Heart: The Caged Ward

Arturo didn't wait for an answer. He kept his hand over her mouth, his eyes scanning the restroom for listening devices. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

He removed his hand slowly. "We are leaving. Now."

"Answer me," Cinnamon whispered.

He ignored her. He stripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her. He buttoned it up to her chin, his knuckles brushing her throat. His touch was clinical, efficient.

"Not here," he said.

He grabbed her arm and marched her out the back exit, through the kitchen. The staff parted like the Red Sea.

In the alleyway, the air was cool and smelled of garbage. A black SUV was waiting.

As Arturo shoved her toward the car, Cinnamon looked toward the street entrance.

Sasha Vane was there, surrounded by a cluster of paparazzi. She was holding the envelope, smiling dazzlingly.

"Ms. Vane! Is it true? Are you and Mr. Watts an item?"

Sasha laughed, a practiced, musical sound. "Arturo is... very generous. Let's just say he knows how to take care of a woman."

Cinnamon felt bile rise in her throat. She watched the performance, feeling like a ghost. He was silencing her in the alley while his paid actress sold the lie out front.

Arturo pushed her into the back seat of the SUV. "Home. Level one security protocol."

The door slammed shut. The lock engaged.

Cinnamon huddled in the corner, pulling his jacket tighter around herself. It smelled like him, which only made it worse.

"Arturo," she said, her voice hollow.

He was typing on his phone, his thumbs moving in a blur. "Not now."

"It's true, isn't it?" she said. "The money. That's why you wouldn't let me join the FBI. Because if they vetted me, they'd find the account. And you'd go to prison."

Arturo stopped typing. He looked out the window. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know enough! You're laundering it. Just like my dad."

He turned to her then. His eyes were bleak. "I am trying to keep you alive, Cinnamon. The people looking for that money... they don't file lawsuits. They file missing persons reports."

"So you're the good guy?" She let out a bitter laugh. "You're just hoarding the gold."

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

Cinnamon slipped her hand into her pocket. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the digital recorder. She had captured his panicked reaction, his refusal to deny it. It was circumstantial, but it was a start.

She had him.

The car ride was a funeral procession. Silence hung between them, thick with betrayal.

When they arrived at the Manor, Cinnamon got out without waiting for him. She walked up the steps, her head held high, though she felt like crumbling.

Arturo stood by the car, watching her go. He looked like a man who had just lost everything.

"Cinnamon," he called out.

She stopped, her hand on the door. She didn't turn around.

"I did it for you," he said.

"Go to hell, Arturo," she whispered.

She went to her room and locked the door. She sat on the floor and pulled out the recorder. She pulled out her iPad and looked at the photo she'd snapped of the shredded picture of her father.

She took a picture of the recorder and the partial tail number from the jet. She opened the encrypted messaging app she used with Mia.

Cinnamon: I have proof. He's involved. I'm going to find that account, Mia. And I'm going to take it all.

Downstairs, in his study, Arturo poured a glass of scotch. He didn't drink it.

He walked to the wall safe hidden behind a painting of a storm-tossed ship. He spun the dial.

Inside was a single, thick file.

The Taylor Family Trust - Amendment IV.

He opened it.

The document outlined an offshore account containing fifty million dollars. Clean money. Money he had spent five years scrubbing, paying taxes on, and hiding from the creditors who had torn her father's estate apart.

He ran his finger over the "Beneficiary" line.

Cinnamon Taylor.

It was all hers. It always had been. He was just the gatekeeper, holding the wolves at bay until she was strong enough to hold the sword.

But now, she held a dagger, and she was pointing it straight at his heart.

"Hate me," he whispered to the empty room. "Just survive."

He closed the file.