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major. He’s not addicted or anything. He just goes to the casino a couple times a month. It’s not a secret.”
    “I’ve heard that.” According to his sister, who’d worked as a waitress at the casino, the prince gambled regularly in the high-roller rooms. “So what happened?”
    “The last time he was there, he gambled with a man he’d never met before. Someone from the Middle East. He didn’t think much of it at the time. But he found out later that the man was a terrorist, a member of the Third Crescent, an al Qaeda offshoot. And apparently the surveillance camera caught them together.”
    “So? What’s wrong with that? If he didn’t know who the man was…”
    “You’re right. Normally no one would care. But my father just signed an international agreement, promising cooperation in the war on terror. Tristan’s heading the committee in charge of that, so pictures of him partying with a terrorist…” She grimaced. “The timing couldn’t be worse. It would make us look corrupt, especially with the reputation for smuggling that País Vell has.
    “And you know what the mood in the country is like. People are angry at my family right now. Any hint of scandal will only add to the unrest. And if people start protesting again, someone else could get hurt.”
    Dante rubbed his jaw, his morning beard stubble scraping his palm. “Even so, just gambling with a terrorist doesn’t seem that bad. It’s hardly worthy of blackmail.”
    “It will be by the time the tabloids get finished with it. They’ll distort and exaggerate the story until Tristan looks like a terrorist, too. Just the appearance of doing something wrong is enough. Believe me, I’ve learned that the hard way over the years.”
    He angled his head, her obvious resentment taking him aback. And for the first time he wondered if he’d misjudged her, and if there was more to her than he knew. Because if the tabloids had exaggerated her behavior, painting her in an unfair light…
    Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, he cut them off. He didn’t care what she was like. She was a tool, a means to avenge his sister’s death, nothing more.
    “So Gomez tried to blackmail your brother?” he prodded, steering his thoughts back to the prince.
    “Yes. He told Tristan to pay up, or he’d expose the surveillance footage.”
    “And when was this?”
    “The gambling trip? A couple of weeks ago, on a Thursday night.”
    Dante’s heart missed several beats. It took every ounce of effort he had to keep his expression blank. His sister had died that night. And there wasn’t a chance in hell it was a coincidence, not with the prince involved. Whatever had happened in the casino had to be connected to her death.
    His excitement rising, he paced across the tiles. Lucía had worked the late shift at the casino that night. Just after her shift had ended, she’d phoned him in a panic, her voice so slurred and incoherent, and hiccupping so badly, he could hardly make sense of her words. She’d claimed that the prince was trying to kill her, that she’d witnessed something dreadful—something involving shootings or shots.
    Of course, that last part didn’t make sense. She hadn’t suffered a gunshot wound—only a needle mark on her arm. The coroner had ruled her death a massive heroin overdose, which Dante refused to believe.
    But assuming the prince had killed her, the question was why? She might have seen him gambling with the terrorist—but what difference would that have made? She wouldn’t have recognized anyone from the Middle East.
    Unless the “shots” referred to a murder. If the prince had killed someone—maybe the terrorist—and Lucía had witnessed the crime, he’d have a motive to shut her up.
    But then what about Gomez? How did his death figure into this? What was that weird-looking rash about?
    Dante stopped by the entrance to the kitchen and turned around, his gaze traveling to Paloma again. She still stood by the window, her