The Secrets That Kill - Paperback

When your best friend's sister becomes your obsession...
When a complicated assassination job comes my way, I finally get the chance to get my revenge on the woman who put me behind bars.

My best friend's younger sister.

Sweet, naïve, and innocent, Ivy becomes the unsuspecting accomplice in a cruel and twisted game that will destroy her as well as my target.

Only one thing threatens my plan. She makes my blood burn hot, setting off all kinds of fires. One taste, and I’m addicted to the forbidden. Each depraved act draws us further into a dark, sex-soaked world where my objective for revenge becomes blurred by obsession for the girl who ruined me.

She thinks she knows betrayal. She has no idea.

And as Ivy falls deeper under my spell, she doesn't know that the dark secrets of my past are about to shatter her dreams for the future.

Fans of dark billionaire, secret society, enemies to lovers romances will love this spicy hot new standalone novel by USA Today Bestselling Author Kristen Luciani.

The moment she walks into the party, the air pressure changes. 
It becomes thicker, alight with all the dark fucking possibilities that come along with her. 
I know, because I can think of things so depraved, twisted, and thrilling even the unrepentant in Hell’s depths would moan with pleasure. 
I know, because I’ve done many of those things. 
She sets off a vibrating edge, a sliver of excitement. The air sings when she’s near. 
I can use that. 
And I’m going to.
Just not yet. 
Because the wait brings the pitch up to a sweeter level.
I’m also busy watching a dead man walking. 
Right now, the poison’s destroyed his liver and kidneys, unraveling his DNA. He’s dead. It just hasn’t come full circle. Even if he was rushed to a hospital, he’d still end up dying. 
I spent a long time devising the poison. Tasteless, odorless. Untraceable. Death cap mushrooms are a marvel, my favorite weapon when I’m not working with guns or knives. 
But poisons take time. The right approach, the right formula, the right administration. And then they require time to work. Get one thing wrong, rush a step, and it all crumbles.
Patience, they say, is a virtue. And I play that game like a prodigy. 
Stone-cold. A killer. These are me. I’m also rich as fuck. So rich my past can’t touch me. That long and scarred path that stretches as far back as I can remember might not have ever been paved with gold, but tools? Things that have enabled me to become who I am? This version of Mercer Vale? 
Fuck yes. 
Logan Cooke begins to sweat. There’s a flicker of light in his eyes, a sign of things not quite right. But nobody notices.
And no one will.
The people surrounding me are off their tits and balls on coke and drunk on thirty-dollar artisanal cocktails. Not one of them is going to notice until Cooke hits the floor. 
I lean against the wall in the shadowy corner of Seven7Seven, a trendy faux secret spot in Tribeca complete with an entry password and a non-descript flight of stairs. They lead to the graffitied door, which opens into a long, tall, black velvet-lined hall that opens up to the bronze door of Seven7Seven’s dark, glamorous interior. 
This is the height of the below-Fourteenth Street crowd’s pomposity. As one of the silent, hidden owners, Seven7Seven makes me a shit ton of money, and I can keep an eye on movers and shakers of all kinds. 
Some of them I can use.
Some of them I might need to dispose of.
The Barnes and Noble and Japanese convenience store on the ground level don’t even hint at what’s up here. A person has to book a spot weeks in advance or receive a special invite. The place is well-known to its very specific target audience, and entry is highly coveted. 
I settle back in the shadows and observe.
I don’t need to be here. Cooke’s demise is a done deal, and glitterati parties are not my fucking jam. With the next job I decided to take on? Let’s just say there are other avenues to get what I need. But there’s a certain symmetry, an air of fate about doing it this way. 
Not real fate. This is crafted down to the finest detail of the evening, complete with her arrival on the dot. But like all good artists, it’s going to appear seamless, effortless. A natural occurrence, just like fate. And when she realizes there isn’t a drop of serendipity or chance of any kind involved, her real fate, her future, finite as it is, will be sealed. 
But I still refuse to look at Ivy Gardner. Not yet. 
I want to time everything perfectly. Cooke, my revenge, my next project—
“You’re pretty,” a girl slurs, her hand on me, lashes fluttering furiously. 
She’s hot enough, I guess, whoever the fuck she is. But she’s touching without permission. 
I glance at her hand then her until she releases her grip on me. Rich and never worked a day in her life. This type is easy to pick out of a crowd. She doesn’t go away, and I’m aware my fellow Obsidian Knight, Malone West, is watching closely. 
“Not interested. Go away.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“But,” I say, gauging just how cruel I can be. “I do.”
Her eyes narrow and she turns, flouncing off. 
“That’s not nice, Vale.” I stiffen at the sound of Malone’s voice as he approaches me from the bar.
“There’s a lot more I could have said. Or done.”
“Boundaries,” Malone warns.
“The thing, West,” I say, not bothering with the niceties of society—fuck society—as he hands me a Laphroaig. “Is that money gives us the freedom to do anything we want.”
“You’re a cold fucker.”
“You aren’t?” I spare him a glance. “Also, boundaries? For fucking real?”
Malone doesn’t give a damn about boundaries. What he gives a fuck about, what all the Knights do, is his own ass. The ability to indulge in his deepest, darkest appetites when he wants, how he wants, with no repercussions. 
The Obsidian Knights. A very secret society, one that exists in the realm outside law, order, and rules that the rest of the world follows. Each Knight has been carefully curated, each of us has special skills. The crème de la crème of underworld criminals. Shadowy, existing on the edges of society. No one needs to work; we take on jobs or projects for different reasons. 
I’m not saying there’s no money involved. There is. So much that half the assholes in here would come in their pants over all the zeroes attached to the numbers we receive for our work. I’m just saying money is never the sole reason why we do what we do. 
Revenge. Pleasure. Boredom. Power. Hate. Even love, for those who believe in it. 
These all play a part. 
But the reasons always change. We aren’t heroes, but we are top of our game. And when we want to play, we’ll burn things to the ground to get our prize.
My motivations are usually about the challenge, the meticulous set up. Matching the right tool to the right target. For Logan Cooke? Poison was the best bet. For others, it’s a gun. Sometimes a knife. But each and every one of my kills are planned. Every scenario thought out. 
I like the wait, the stretch of time, the heightening of senses that comes with control. Like when I have a sub on the St Andrew’s Cross. Or have her tied up as I work out the next move, the most effective one to get what I want. 
Layers and control. 
For Malone, it’s chaos and mess and carnage. I take a long look at the blond man with his aristocratic features and carefully manicured beard scruff. He looks like the type to help old ladies over the street. But I know he’s also the type to slit their throats if he wanted to, the type to charm them out of millions, whether it’s art, jewels, or money. 
Malone is deadly. 
Just like me. 
He thrives on chaos, it’s like fucking to him. I don’t. I thrive on the detail, careful planning, control. The minutiae. 
It’s pure patience, something that’s come from my past, a way to survive. I’ve come, as they say, a long way from dealing and living on the streets, from that kid who’ll do anything to survive, that monster. 
It’s what I had to be. 
Become worse than those around you and own the game when it’s time, or fucking sink and die. 
I had no intentions of the latter. Even back then. 
When the Knights came knocking, I was more than ready. Primed to take my place among those like me. 
Because if you don’t have the urge to climb shaking ladders of morals and wear pristine clothes to hide the rot underneath, when you don’t chase fame, when you finally have the billions, then…the world is there for the taking. 
And I’m here to fucking take. 
The Knights have a place to meet, to let loose, to talk in the open. But here, even in a place where navel gazing isn’t an occupational hazard, it’s a prerequisite, talk is dangerous. It’s why Malone pushes the envelope. 
I allow it because he knows the rules of the game. And he wants something. I’m always interested in that. 
“So…Broken Angel?”
My next job. Bring down the fucker behind the string of clubs. It’s going to be involved. It’s going to take patience. And skill. My skill set. 
“Let’s say I was asked.”
And I was. This job comes with all enticements an Obsidian Knight wouldn’t turn down. Stakes in the power game. Real power. Stuff most would kill for. 
“By a higher up?”
“Yes,” I say. I take another sip of the single malt and check my watch. The chaos Malone wants is going to happen soon. 
“It’s not going to be easy.”
The request also comes with an offer I’d be a fucking moron to refuse. But that’s not why I’m taking this on. The challenge is more than there, but that’s not the reason either. 
“Since Orion isn’t here,” Malone says, his voice monotone as if we’re at some board meeting and not in the middle of a party, “I’m guessing Cara, his latest fuck piece, is here to help you out tonight in his place.”
Then he turns to me, a sinister smirk on his face.
“Or maybe the tasty little morsel she just brought in here with her is.”
“She’s off limits. Stay in your fucking lane, West.”
He’s right. Ivy is here for me. The job at hand means I need a certain kind of girl to bend to my will. 
I can taste her name on my tongue. The sickeningly sweet coating and the bitter center colliding all at once.
Ivy is the exact kind of girl the depraved who play in the depths of the Broken Angel sex clubs want.
“Henderson won’t be easy to get.”
I lift an eyebrow at Malone. 
“Plenty have tried. Broken Angel has a lot of information and blackmail-worthy stuff that’s kept him alive.”
“You want something.” I pose it as a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
That’s all he says. I don’t push. 
In ten minutes, Cooke will hit the floor. Malone will feed off the chaos. And I’ll make my next move. 
I’m not bothered by the untouchables. And I’ve known of the fucked-up shit that happens in the bowels of Broken Angel. 
I don’t give a fuck. 
That’s not my reason either. 
No. My reason is simple. 
Revenge. 
A finely spun web of revenge I’m finally ready to serve. 
And timing?
It’s everything. 
I excuse myself from Malone, move through the partygoers, and catch Cara’s eye. 
Her little gift, in exchange for taking care of a debt, looks like a favor to me. It isn’t. At all. It’s pure manipulation on my part.
Information is an important commodity. One I horde. And when another Knight—the one I’ve known the longest, Orion—started sleeping with a college student, I got curious. 
Cara isn’t his type. But she has family issues, gambling debts I’m not even sure Orion knows about. 
I made it my business to run into her, to help her. Especially when I discovered who her friend at college is. 
That’s around the time I decided to say yes to the Broken Angel job, for two reasons.
One is directly tied to Henderson, that rat fuck. 
The other? Well now, that type of revenge is very different. 
The honeypot. 
The pretty girl with the hair like dark caramel. The one who shifted the energy in the room just by walking in.
Ivy Gardner. 
She’s no longer the skinny annoying kid sister of my long-gone best friend. No longer the little fourteen-year-old with the crush on me. No longer the girl I rejected when she tried to kiss me all those years ago. 
Ivy is all grown up now. Gorgeous face, body filled out like a porn star. She’d snag my attention now, even if I’d never met her before. She looks sweet, innocent. Vulnerable. And with all the investigations I did into her, she’s exactly that. A fucking Pollyanna. 
But what she is now and always has been, is the girl who put me in prison. 
It’s time for her to pay.
Ivy’s a walking wet dream for the man I’m going to kill.
I’m going to bend her to my will. I’m going to take her, own her, defile her. And when the time is right, I’ll use her to get me close to Henderson, the semi-recluse behind Broken Angel. 
I’m going to get all the information I need, punish and kill Henderson, and then I’m going to crush Ivy. 
And she’s going to take part in her own destruction. 
Willingly.
Because there won’t be anything she can do to stop it…or me.