Page 118 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“What’s that?” she asks, looking nervously back and forth between the bag and Mika’s retreating form.

“A game,” I say simply. “Look at me.”

She does, and I feel a sharp pang of tension shoot through my cock at the way she obeys me so automatically—and then how she stiffens up when she realizes what she’s done. What she’s revealed.

“I don’t want to play a game,” she mutters.

I ignore that. “Let’s start easy. What is your name?”

She frowns. “I said I don’t want to play.”

I bend down and unzip the duffel. Then I pull out a thin stack of cash and set it down on the table between us.

Her eyes go wide with shock as she stares at the money. Then her gaze moves slowly to meet mine. “What are you doing?”

“The question is, what are yougoing to do?” I ask. “Answering my questions will earn you what’s in this duffel. Refuse, and the money goes back in.”

She shakes her head. “You’re trying to buy answers from me.”

“Wrong. I want answers. You want to care for your son. What we have here is simply an exchange of desires. Money lets that happen.”

She grits her teeth. I can see the conflict rage in her eyes. She wants to be able to be able to flip me off and walk out of here.

But she needs what I have to offer.

On some level, I know this is cruel. I’ve never made anyone else jump through these hoops when they needed help. But this woman… she’s different. I want to help her. But I also want to make her squirm.

“Fine,” she says at last. “My name is Elyssa Jane Redmond.”

I slide the wad of cash across the tablecloth towards her. She doesn’t glance at it, though. She keeps her eyes fixed on me.

“Next question. Do you have any siblings?”

“No. I’m an only child.”

I offer her another wad of cash. “Where did you grow up?”

“In the middle of the desert, just outside Las Vegas.”

That gives me pause. “Right outside Las Vegas.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“And the night we met, was that the first time you’ve ever been in the city?”

She sighs. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t stay at home anymore.”

“Why not?”

She has the body language of a trapped animal. Knee bouncing, hands twitching, eyes darting around the restaurant as though she’s expecting someone to burst through the glass at any moment.

Finally, her gaze settles back on me. “It wasn’t the life I wanted anymore,” she offers quietly.

She’s holding back—that much is obvious. Her answers are deliberately vague, as if she’s practiced how much she can say without saying anything at all. That’s not good enough for me. Not by a long shot.

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