Elemental Assassin 03 - Venom

green eyes darkened. “You’ll see.”
    He didn’t volunteer any more information, and for once I wasn’t in the mood to be curious and pry. I took a sip of my gin and grimaced. For some reason, the cold liquor tasted bitter tonight. Or maybe that was because I was still brooding about Bria.
    Finn had kept his promise to dig into my long-lost sister. Yesterday he’d given me a fat folder of information on Bria and told me that another was on its way as soon as he heard from the rest of his contacts in Savannah. But I hadn’t opened the folder yet. It had remained closed and untouched on the coffee table in Fletcher Lane’s den.
    For once, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to learn someone else’s deepest, darkest secrets by scanning a piece of paper. Part of me—a big part of me—preferred to think of Bria the way that I’d always remembered her. As my sweet little sister. The innocent girl I’d played hide-and-seek with and made countless mugs of hot chocolate for. I didn’t know that I wanted to read about everything Bria had been through, growing up as an orphan. My childhood had been traumatic enough living on the Ashlandstreets. I hoped Bria hadn’t suffered as much as I had over the years. Either way, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. Because the answers could be… ugly.
    The truth was that I didn’t know how I felt about my long-lost baby sister being in Ashland, much less the fact that she was a cop. A good one, at that. Somebody who actually tried to help people, who wanted to make a difference in a city as dirty and corrupt as Ashland—while I’d spent my entire adult life killing people for money. The idea that we shared the same DNA boggled the mind. Guess there was something to that nurture stuff after all.
    I threw back the rest of my bitter gin. The alcohol slid down my throat and started its slow, pleasant burn in my stomach, but it didn’t improve my mood.
    “Find Xavier and let’s get on with this,” I told Finn.
    His turn to raise an eyebrow. “Cranky much?”
    I smiled. “You’re going to see how cranky I am when I start ordering the most expensive champagne on the menu and guzzling it down like water. After I charge it to your tab, of course.”
    Finn held up his hands. “Fine, fine. Xavier was supposed to swing by our booth, but I’ll go see if I can find him.”
    Finn got to his feet, straightened his tie, smoothed down his walnut-colored hair, and stepped into the swirling crowd. He strutted toward the Ice bar, probably to ask the bartender about Xavier. His path took him close to the edge of the dance floor. The blond hooker he’d been eyeing blew Finn a kiss. He grinned and veered in her direction. Less than three minutes later, the two of themwere ensconced at the bar, drinking martinis and making goo-goo eyes at each other.
    I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. A pretty face and tight body could distract Finnegan Lane from his own funeral. I should have just told him I was leaving. I reached for my cell phone to text him that news flash, when a shadow fell over me.
    “Why, Gin, what a lovely surprise,” a male voice murmured.
    I looked up to find Owen Grayson standing in front of my booth. Like Finn, Grayson wore a rich suit, black in his case, with a charcoal gray shirt underneath. The fabric accentuated his compact, sturdy figure, which always reminded me of a dwarf’s stocky physique. But at six foot one, Grayson was far too tall to be a dwarf.
    His glossy, blue-black hair gleamed under the club’s muted lights. So did his eyes, which were a light violet. A white, thin scar slashed down his chin. The faint mark would have ruined the look of another man’s face, but it added a hard, sexy, dangerous edge to Grayson’s features, giving him a roguish, rakish air. So did the crooked tilt of his nose. Or maybe that was just because I liked the rest of the package so much. Owen Grayson knew how to wear a suit very well, and I couldn’t help but speculate what lay beneath his designer duds. Somehow, I knew it would be as appealing as the rest of him.
    Still, despite the slick, expensive threads, Grayson looked like the kind of guy who’d taken more than one punch in his time. A real fighter through and through. The strong, self-assured way he carried himself only made him more impressive to me. I’d always admired confidence—especially when the person actually had something to be confident about. Since Owen Grayson was one of the richest businessmen in