TEN
Oz hadn’t meant to invite himself over to the boss’s penthouse. He really hadn’t. But the thought had struck him as they’d riffled fruitlessly through endless stacks of paper—what if La Chef had been keeping records about her transactions with Vito separate from most of her other business?
Oz didn’t like it, not one bit. What could she possibly have been doing that she needed to keep secret, so secret she couldn’t even put it in her usual code and leave evidence lying around the office?
There wasn’t much that was off-limits on Kateria, so he couldn’t even imagine …
Still. The only place he could see her leaving such secret information was her own home.
Which was now Benedict’s home, because he’d inherited her penthouse suite.
The only time Oz had seen anything even remotely close to the luxurious apartment La Chef kept for herself was when he’d been auctioned off. He’d seen the hotel the auctions were held in very briefly, before he was whisked away to the underground. The basement of the hotel was home to the slave market; it was still a basement, but a swanky one, to make the wealthy feel at home while they bid on other people’s lives.
La Chef wasn’t that wealthy—it was why she only had a couple of true slaves. She mostly dabbled in indentured servants, often through other back alleys and dark web channels. Oz supposed he should have been flattered she’d spent so much money to straight up own him, but then again, Vetruvian slaves were about a dime a dozen.
Similar to how La Chef didn’t buy slaves, her penthouse reflected her middling-rich status. To the wealthy who bought and sold slaves, it was likely pedestrian. To Oz, it was mind-boggling.
He’d never seen a place with so many rooms, haunting white corridors lined with portraits and sculptures. Light filtered in from skylights in the roof, and then from a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows lining what he assumed was the living room, illuminating the sunken sitting area, which was adorned with leather sofas and chairs. Like La Chef hosted parties where she needed to seat fifteen or twenty people in a room all at once.
Benedict led him through the living room, past the kitchen—sleek in gleaming stainless steel—and down one of those corridors. They didn’t need to go far though; Benedict stopped and pushed open one of the doors, revealing an office space that was just as chaotic as La Chef’s actual rented office.
“Wow,” he said, eyeing the room. “Was your aunt always so disorganized?”
“I don’t know,” Benedict admitted. “I don’t really remember being in her offices at any point when I visited.”
“Hm.” Oz stepped over the threshold, glancing around the room. He’d been hoping there was less here, so they could move through all the paperwork quickly. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was actually more. He peered at one of the bookshelves, recognizing that the binders showed years on their spines.
It was an archive. He let out a long, slow, frustrated breath.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said, turning slowly back to Benedict.
The felid dragged a hand down his face pensively. Then he turned his glowing gaze on Oz. “Do you have any idea when she fought with this Vito guy? Had the … falling out, as you called it?”
Oz tilted his head. “I was eleven or twelve, I think.”
“And you’re …?”
Oz didn’t know why the question made him blush, but it did. “Twenty-seven,” he said.
At least, they thought he was twenty-seven. He didn’t really know when he’d been born—he couldn’t remember that, and nobody really kept good records about slaves’ birthdays and such.
“All right,” Benedict said, striding up to the shelf, eyes scanning it. Oz straightened up a little, all too aware of the felid in his personal bubble.
He’d been all too aware of Benedict before last night at Saveur, but watching his boss run around in a shirt collar, bow tie, cuffs, and dress slacks had not helped him any. Now, he could barely keep his eyes to himself, instead letting his gaze rove appreciatively over the felid’s form. Benedict didn’t seem to notice.
Today, he worse a loose shirt—rather baggy and ill-fitting, actually—and a pair of slacks, also on the baggy side. Like he was trying to hide. Oz wished he wouldn’t; the cat-like alien had a magnificent body.
Not that Oz should be thinking things like that about the man who literally owned him.
Still, he couldn’t help the heat in his cheeks as he watched the felid stretch out one arm, elegant claw-tipped fingers landing gingerly on one of the binders, tipping it back and removing it from the shelf.
Oz had no idea sliding a binder off a shelf could be so sexy. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, like he could knock loose his naughty thoughts.
Benedict opened the binder, licked his finger, and started leafing through the pages. Oz tried to not to think about that tongue licking other things. He looked frantically around the office, trying to distract himself instead.
His gaze landed on a framed photo of La Chef with a felid kitten, who he could only assume was Benedict. The photo was old and sun-faded; Benedict couldn’t have been more than three or four.
Oz inhaled through his nose, trying to calm himself. Between cute baby Benedict and sexy adult Benedict standing right beside him, being in La Chef’s penthouse was going to be the death of him.
He finally came back to the floor when Benedict sighed in aggravation, snapping the binder shut and putting it back on the shelf. Oz turned to him, eyebrow raised.
The felid shook his head. “It’s no use,” he muttered. “Half of it’s in that stupid code from the office, and the other half, I can’t make heads or tails of.”
Oz considered for a long moment, then said slowly, “I think we need to talk to Gwuill.”
“The accountant?”
Oz nodded grimly. Benedict frowned. “I thought you said he wouldn’t know.”
“He won’t. But he can help us decipher her code.” And maybe, from there, they could decipher the rest of the archives—the stuff La Chef hadn’t wanted even her most trusted confidante, her accountant, to know.
Gwuill was a tiny, shrivelled alien with a deep, booming voice and no time for anyone. They gave Benedict and Oz a nasty look as they walked into their office, then promptly went back to reading whatever was on their screen.
Awkward silence ensued. Just when Oz was certain he was going to have to push Benedict to say something—or, worse, say something himself—Gwuill drawled, “May I help you.”
Oz looked at the lime green felid next to him. Benedict blinked, then said, “Um, yes.”
Gwuill paused, then looked at them over their glasses with pure disdain.
Benedict lifted a hand. “I’m Benedict, Belladonna’s successor.”
“I see,” Gwuill said, then went back to tapping at the screen.
More silence.
“We’re here because?—”
Gwuill held up a gnarled finger, then continued tapping. Benedict glanced at Oz, and Oz could only offer him a shrug. He knew of Gwuill; he wasn’t sure he’d ever met the alien before.
Finally, Gwuill stopped tapping and turned to them, folding their hands. “La Chef’s accounts are a mess,” they drawled. “Unless you’re here to straighten that out, I’d suggest you turn around and walk back through the door. I’m very busy—it’s tax season.”
Oz frowned. “Does anyone on Kateria even pay tax?” he asked.
Gwuill smiled nastily. “Not if I can help it.”
Oz resisted a full-body shudder. He hadn’t ever thought white-collar crime would be high on his squick list, but apparently it soured his stomach.
“We were actually hoping you could help us with something about the accounts,” Benedict said, which earned him an eyeroll and a sigh.
“And what might that be?” Gwuill asked, leaning back in their chair in a way that suggested they should be thankful the accountant had taken the time to entertain their questions.
“We’ve found ledgers, but we can’t make heads or tails of them,” Benedict explained.
“We’re hoping you can help us sort them out,” Oz continued, hoping Gwuill wasn’t smart enough—or inclined enough—to suss out their true purpose.
All his hopes evaporated when Gwuill huffed, “If anyone can decipher that, I’ll pay off all their loans and give them fifteen percent interest.”
Oz supposed that was a ridiculous offer, meant to suggest that even they didn’t understand La Chef’s ledgers. Which was not good. Not only did Benedict have Vito’s threat hanging over him, he wouldn’t even be able to figure out what he did or didn’t owe to other people.
“Do you know anything about her owing a guy called Vito something?” Benedict blurted before Oz could stop him, and the two of them watched the gnarled alien before them transform into a hissing demon.
“Vito!” Gwuill spat, hopping up on the desk. “Vito! That bastard, I told her to whack him ages ago, but no! Should have done it myself, but she always told me she had it under control—if that’s where the money’s been going?—”
Oz and Benedict shared a look. It was pretty clear they had a hook in Gwuill’s interest now—it seemed they hated Vito with a passion.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Benedict continued.
“Vito gave him a bit of a shake down and said he had six weeks to come up with whatever La Chef owed him,” Oz explained.
It took Gwuill a few seconds to calm themself. Then they returned to their seat, smoothing down their tie. “La Chef owes Vito nothing,” they said confidently, folding their hands.
“Vito begs to differ.”
“And Vito can go fuck himself on a flagpole,” Gwuill said calmly. “Now, if that’s everything? I have to finish a few … out-of-atmosphere transactions for my clients.”
“I am your client,” Benedict protested.
Gwuill gave him a cool look. “No. Your aunt was my client, and you might be my client if you can figure out her ledgers. Or at least keep better ones yourself.”
Oz looked at Benedict again, who sighed and bowed to the accountant. “Come on,” he said to Oz, turning to the door.
They left Gwuill prodding at the screen again. They were silent through the corridor, back into the bright sunlight of the day.
“Guess we’re back at square one,” Benedict said, scratching at his head.
“Uh-huh,” Oz agreed, then glanced around for the time. “I gotta get over to Saveur.”
“Oh. Right.” Benedict twisted his head around, clearly looking for the clock Oz had spotted. “Is it really that late?”
“Mmhmm,” Oz agreed, already starting his march toward the club.
Benedict followed. After they’d gone a few paces, he said, “Should we grab something to eat before we go?”
Oz glanced over his shoulder. “Go where?”
“To Saveur,” Benedict clarified.
“I’m going to Saveur,” Oz replied.
“Yes,” the felid agreed.
“You’re going home,” Oz said after a beat or two. “Not to the club.”
“Why not?”
Oz could think of a dozen reasons, but most of them boiled down to I don’t want my boss watching over my shoulder while I work . Instead, he chose a more tactful answer: “One of us needs a good night’s sleep to keep working on this Vito problem, and I can tell you, it’s definitely not going to be me.”
Benedict frowned. “I don’t see why?—”
Oz sighed, then turned to the felid. “You really don’t need to come to the club.”
“But I can help,” Benedict protested.
Oz shook his head. “It’ll be okay. It’s Tuesday. Tuesdays are always slow.”
Benedict looked torn. “Are you sure?”
Oz gave him a wide smile. “Of course. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
With that, he started walking toward Saveur again. And once again, Benedict followed him like a shadow. “At least get something to eat,” the felid murmured when Oz turned back to to him.
Oz waited a beat, then sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled, veering off in a different direction. “This way.”
He was going to be late, and Sassa was going to have his head, but he supposed pleasing the boss was more important than anything else.