The Disposable Bride's Deadly Secret Identity

Adrienne POV

Twelve minutes. That was exactly how long I had before the Romero family's Soldiers arrived to collect their collateral.

"Sign it." Harlon slammed the thick stack of legal documents onto the mahogany table, sending a Montblanc pen rolling across the wood. The guest suite living room reeked of Brenda's cheap perfume and Harlon's nervous sweat, a stark contrast to the expensive Persian rug beneath our feet.

I clutched my cheap, sequined purse, widening my eyes beneath the fried platinum bangs. I shrank back, playing the perfect, terrified idiot. "No. Not until I get my two million."

Brenda's face twisted in ugly fury. "You little spy!"

Harlon kicked a dining chair. It crashed violently to the floor. "You ungrateful trailer-park trash! You'll sign it, or I'll let the loan sharks carve you up!"

I let out a flawless, hysterical sob, letting my shoulders shake. "You're selling me to a monster who kills people! If I'm going to be fed to 'The Ghost,' I want to die rich!" I grabbed the pre-nup and shoved it hard into Cammie's chest. "You marry him then!"

Cammie shrieked and scrambled backward, her face pale with genuine terror at the mere mention of Emiliano Romero.

Checkmate.

Harlon glanced at his Rolex, a vein pulsing in his forehead. If the Romero Soldiers knocked and the deal wasn't done, he would face a mafia Vendetta and the loan sharks simultaneously. Sweating profusely, he yanked out his phone. "Fine. Give me the account."

I rattled off a Swiss routing number, my voice still trembling for effect. As he hit transfer, I blinked twice. The micro-device embedded in my contact lens synced with the transaction, encrypting the routing and locking the funds instantly. Harlon thought he could cancel the wire the second I was out the door. He was wrong. *Cipher* always secured the bag.

The transfer confirmation pinged. I picked up the pen and scrawled a completely forged, legally void signature on the dotted line.

Right on cue, the heavy, ominous chime of the estate doorbell echoed through the suite.

Harlon lunged. His thick fingers dug brutally into my bruised arm, his face inches from mine. "If you screw this up, Adrienne," he snarled, spit flying from his lips, "I will find you and make you beg for death."

I looked down at his hand, then up into his bloodshot eyes. The trembling, terrified girl vanished in a fraction of a second. I yanked my arm free with a sharp, calculated twist that left him stumbling back in shock.

"Goodbye, Uncle Harlon," I said, my voice dropping to a dead, icy calm. "Thanks for the tip."

I grabbed my cheap duffel bag stuffed with newspaper and walked out the door, leaving their pathetic gasps behind.

Outside the grand entrance, a black armored Romero sedan idled like a hearse. A massive man in a tailored suit stood like a gargoyle by the open rear door. Thomas. The Ghost's personal gatekeeper.

He didn't spare me a single glance as I slid into the cavernous, black leather interior. The heavy door shut with a vault-like thud, sealing me inside.

As the car pulled away, leaving the Holcombs behind the iron gates, the thick bulletproof glass partition between the front and back seats began to glide up.

I needed intel. I slumped against the leather, loudly popping a bubble with the cheap gum I was chewing. "So," I chirped, injecting pure naive dread into my voice. "All those rumors about Mr. Ghost... is he really crazy?"

Thomas met my eyes in the rearview mirror just before the glass sealed completely. His voice crackled through the intercom, cold and abrasive as crushed glass.

"In the Romero family, what you hear is what we let you hear. The truth is always worse."

The intercom clicked off. The partition locked into place, plunging the back seat into absolute silence.