Chapter 23
The world shrank to the dust motes dancing in the weak light, the hum of the fluorescent bulb, and the dark, imposing figure of Cyrus Blackwood holding her discarded truth in his hands.
Ziva’s mind went blank, wiped clean by sheer terror. She clutched the remaining files to her chest like a shield, the paper crinkling loudly in the silent room.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she stammered, the words feeling too small for the space between them. “I was just… Lucien asked me to… to organize the files before they were sent.”
It was a pathetic lie. The torn pages on the table screamed the truth.
Cyrus did not acknowledge her excuse. His gaze remained fixed on the handwritten note he held. His voice, when he spoke again, was low. It had a gravelly texture, worn smooth by authority and use. It
