Page 132 of Desperate People

Everything I can find about him in seconds.

His name once lit up the fashion world when he captured supermodel Esme in all her raw beauty.

The last shoot I found—Esme was pregnant, draped only in a bolt of green silk.

The pictures? Stunning. But I wondered how her husband let that happen.

From what I gathered, the couple still lived somewhere called Maccon City down the shore in New Jersey.

A rabbit hole I don’t have time to chase tonight.

DeSoto is a slave to his art.

Dedicated.

Single.

But not a danger to Lucy.

She’s not even on his radar until the Volkovs make a request for him to handle the shoot.

I growl.

Marat fucking Volkov should’ve warned me.

But I don’t have time to be pissed at my father-in-law.

Next, I dive back into El Tigre’s world.

He’s off the list.

No question.

That man’s obsession belongs to his own family, tangled up in some twisted version of loyalty.

But the real question that keeps gnawing at me is this. Who the hell is using that singer’s name to get close to my wife?

And then, like a goddamn thunderclap, it hits me.

Was he there this whole time? Right fucking in front of me.

Fuck.

Fury rattles through me. It’s so raw, it shakes me down to my very core—like an earthquake tearing through my chest.

The answer was right under my nose the entire time.

When I break into this fucking creep’s digital life—pull back the veil, trace the cracks and shadows that no one else even knows exist—I make one promise.

That son of a bitch is going to wish he never laid eyes on Lucy Cruz.

I’m coming for him.

And I’m not stopping at siphoning his assets into offshore accounts for his ex-wife and the kids he neglects—which I do, with fucking relish, sending an anonymous email to her with the account numbers and passwords.

Nope. Not done.

That’s just the beginning.

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