Chapter 1

Justin Miranda paced his cell like a tiger in a zoo. He’d had too much time to think. Too much time to talk to himself and every person he ever knew. They’d come to him one by one as the days had droned on and on. They quizzed him about relationships. They questioned his behavior, his lifestyle,

his rationale. They interrogated him about his decisions, his motivations, his beliefs, and his humanity, each one demanding answers. Answers he didn’t have. He was done with self- analysis in this space that seemed good for nothing else.

He hadn’t seen his own face for forty-five days. Hadn’t seen either the adoration he had been accustomed to most of his life nor the repulsion he’d experienced with the mutilated forehead given to him by the crazy diamond smuggler in Brazil. He ran his fingers over the scars, the “L F F” standing out like braille.

“I should have let him kill me,” he muttered for the thousandth time.

“Bad boys come to a bad end.” It was his grandmother’s voice again. He heard her so often now, he wondered if she was haunting the prison.

She had taken to berating him about the women he’d sold into the sex trade the way she’d judged him in his teens about his constantly changing string of girlfriends. “Do you delight in hurting them, Justin?” She had waited up for him then after
a date for a heart-to-heart, but here in these four walls, she popped in without invitation, bringing with her something Justin had rarely felt before a few months ago. Sorrow.

It was a deep sadness, but it stopped short of what she wanted out of him. He didn’t feel sufficiently guilty for the old woman. She just shook her head.

Truly, he had loved his former life. Beautiful women, lots of sex, lots of money. Attracting females had always been easy. Charming them had been his well-honed skill, and getting them to fall into his bed awash with desire had been his superpower.

This morning, his grandmother had been waiting for him even before he’d opened his eyes, bringing up for discussion what he had worked hard to put out of his mind. The beginning of the end. The deal with Aaron McCain. The purchase of Tiffany Morrow. The disappearance of Rita Miller that had put him in the path of Dani Harper.

Breathing hard, he sank to the edge of his cot, his head falling forward as his hands ran through his too long hair. For that woman, he felt the kind of sorrow the old lady wanted. He felt regret. It was an empty hole inside of him. He’d held her momentarily, kissed her only briefly and lost something of his soul to her forever.

“Your soul is black, Justin,” his grandmother intoned. “You’re a bad boy that will—”

“Come to a bad end!” he finished, his words bouncing back to him off the soundproof walls.

If they would just let him out, he’d give them what they wanted. That was why they had secreted him into the building and right into solitary. His incarceration had to be off the record. He had told them so himself. He’d even waived his rights to a lawyer, so not a soul would know.

But now he’d been there so long, he thought they must have forgotten. He threw his head back, his eyes immediately tracing the cracks in the ceiling he now knew so well. He had told them he’d give them all the names he knew in exchange for
his freedom, but they’d wanted more.

“Fine,” he’d said. He’d work with them like in Brazil. He’d play their game by any rules they laid out. He’d played games all his life to get what he wanted. He’d play theirs until he was free again. He was of no use to anyone in here. He might as well have let Formosa kill him.

The small panel slid on the door, and he jumped. “You have a visitor. Stay sitting where you are.”

The door opened, and two men he recognized walked in. Logan Stafford’s eyes registered his sorry appearance with a lift of his brows, and Justin held his breath, not daring to hope that things were about to change.

After a moment’s hesitation where they each regarded the other, Stafford spoke. “First,” he said, crossing his arms, “I don’t like you.”

Justin nodded rapidly. “That’s fair.”

“If we bring you out,” FBI agent Davis said, next to him, “it will be because of Will Yarnel’s report on your work in Brazil.”

Justin nodded, more slowly this time, his right eye twitching. Play the game. Play the game. Play the game. “Big men were caught. I can. . . do more. In here, I—”

“You will be my responsibility,” Stafford interrupted, then pointed his thumb to Davis, “and I have to report to the FBI.” He raised a stern brow. “You will not make me look bad.”

Justin swallowed hard, nodded again, and dared to look past them to the door, finally letting himself believe that his “bad end” could be delayed.

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