Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adrien
Elena sits back in her chair, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth that reminds me of a chess master who’s just observed her opponent’s fatal mistake.
“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” she says, her Boston accent surfacing prominently, a sign she’s dropped the silk of civility.
“You’re coming to me asking to join my team, while simultaneously asking me to purchase information.
Information that could never trace back to me, of course.
” Her fingers drum against the white tablecloth.
“If I give you this name—tell you who commissioned the Crawford operation—what exactly do I get in return?” Her tone is pleasant, but the question carries the weight of a loaded weapon.
“Moira indicated I’d want to meet with you to tamp down an investigation, but that’s not sounding like what this is. ”
Around our table, the restaurant continues its lunch service—the gentle clink of silverware, muted conversations, the soft jazz that makes Gramercy Tavern feel genteel compared to the Manhattan chaos outside. Everything hinges on the next few minutes.
“What do you want?” I ask, redirecting the question, maintaining the composure my father would call negotiation posture, though this feels more like absolution bartered in real time.
Elena’s eyes light with the kind of satisfaction that comes from being asked exactly the right question. “First rights to information. You can’t sell anything about anyone without offering me the right of first refusal.”
It’s not an unexpected request. “Agreed.”
“That includes Moira.”
“Noted.”
“And payment for the information you’ve requested. In the spirit of partnership, I’ll charge a reduced rate—two million dollars.”
The number lands like the pop of a cork—quiet, final, indulgent.
The price doesn’t surprise me. High-caliber intelligence, delivered with the guarantee of anonymity and the promise of ongoing partnership, is worth every penny. I can easily imagine my father parting with a similar sum. “Done. And future arrangements?”
“Rates vary depending on the project value. I’ll share thirty percent of my fee with you.”
Thirty percent. For access that underwrites her entire empire. It’s insulting—and deliberate.
“Fifty,” I counter. I’m sure she had a variety of payment arrangements with her other sources, but given I don’t actually plan on carrying on with her, and she’s agreed to hand over the information we need, I can play hardball here. There’s no need to come across as na?ve.
Her laugh—low, rich, the sound of temptation cloaked as praise—drags against my restraint. “You do understand this business better than I thought. But thirty is standard for passive sources.”
“I’m not a passive source. I’m providing active partnership, ongoing access, and significant risk exposure. Fifty percent.”
“Forty is as high as I’ll go.” Elena reaches into her handbag and withdraws what appears to be a small tablet. “In exchange, I’ll adjust the first right of first refusal clause—limit it to information pertaining to a list of companies and individuals I can update at any time.”
The negotiation feels surreal—an elegant fever dream. Around us, servers glide, pouring Chablis while we price treachery by the percentage point. But this is the world I’ve entered, and to protect the people I care about, I shall master its rules.
“Agreed,” I say. “I can wire the money immediately if you prefer.”
Elena raises an eyebrow, then slides her phone across the table to me. “The account information is in the notes app.”
I glance at the screen, memorizing the routing numbers, then pull out my own phone to open my banking app. Two million dollars. I’ve spent more on art acquisitions, but never for information that could unmake the illusion of integrity my surname was built on.
The transfer completes within seconds—one of the advantages of maintaining accounts with institutions that cater to clients who need to move large sums quickly and discreetly.
Elena’s phone chimes almost immediately. She glances at the screen and nods. “Meridian Defense Systems. Jonathan Pierce.” The name hits the air like a drop of ink in water, spreading fast and dark.
The name means nothing to me, but I see Brie’s reaction immediately—a slight straightening of her posture, a knowing expression. That quiet precision of hers—the shift from warmth to focus—still catches me off guard, even now.
“The Kansas-based defense contractor,” Brie says quietly. “He’s one of Crawford’s biggest donors.”
Elena nods approvingly. “Very good. Though sometimes even donors need additional leverage.”
The casual way she describes auctioning democracy makes my stomach turn. We’re not talking about corporate espionage anymore—we’re talking about the systematic corruption of democratic institutions.
Elena looks between Brie and me, her expression hardening. “I don’t like doing business this way. Surveillance, recording equipment, backup teams lurking in vans. You’re not my only source of information, and frankly, I worry you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
She stands, smoothing her gray coat with practiced elegance.
“If you ever try anything like this again, it’s over.
I’ll cut you out completely. I’ll also expose you.
” The word expose lands differently when spoken by a woman who trades in secrets; it hits like an intimate threat.
“If you don’t believe me, just know I’ve been working with Thorne for years.
I possess plenty that traces right back to The Sanctuary.
And those leaks will never come back to me. ”
I stand and offer my hand. She takes it. Her grip is firm, confident—the handshake of someone who’s just secured a profitable new arrangement.
“I’ll be in touch to discuss arrangements for our ongoing partnership. I’ll send someone to your New York office.” Her gaze moves between Brie and me. “I trust this concludes our business satisfactorily for all parties.”
She extends her hand to Brie. “A pleasure doing business with you both,” Elena says. “I believe this partnership will prove mutually beneficial.”
With that, she turns and walks toward the restaurant’s entrance, her two security men materializing from their positions on the street to fall into step behind her.
The whole operation dissolves as smoothly as it began—professional, efficient, leaving no trace except the knowledge burning in my mind—and the metallic aftertaste of a bargain struck in daylight.
Jonathan Pierce. Meridian Defense Systems. A defense contractor buying legislative votes through sexual blackmail and whatever else Elena has dredged up on anyone they target.
“Well,” Brie says quietly, watching Elena’s retreating figure disappear into the Manhattan crowd. “That was almost anticlimactic.”
“You expected her to try to kill us?”
“I expected something. Elena Vasquez doesn’t strike me as someone who leaves loose ends.
But maybe Moira was right. She’s overly confident and lacks caution.
” Brie’s eyes scan the restaurant, still alert despite the seemingly successful conclusion.
“Maybe she really does see this as a business opportunity. If she’s competitive, maybe she believes she landed an advantage over Moira. ”
I signal for the check, suddenly eager to leave this place where I’ve just entered into partnership with someone who brokers in human misery. “At the moment, she doesn’t benefit from harming us. You’ve got the name. What are your next steps?”
Brie’s phone buzzes, and she glances at the screen, then out the window at the street. “They want a debrief once we’re clear.”
As we leave Gramercy Tavern, stepping out into the crisp October afternoon, I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve just set something in motion that will be impossible to control.
Elena Vasquez struck me as many things—brilliant, ruthless, utterly professional—but not someone who forgives being outmaneuvered.
We may have gotten what we wanted, but I suspect we’re making an enemy who’s far more lethal than we realize. Once the feds come knocking at Jonathan Pierce’s door, and eventually Elena’s door, she’ll seek vengeance—and she’s connected in all the right places. CIA, DOJ, FBI, NSA, the White House.
It’s an undeniable risk, but a worthy one. Moira sent the names of her contacts at my Paris and Shanghai locations and claims those are her only sources. Now that we’ve met with Elena, I’ll focus on getting my house in order. Firing the guilty and securing the premises.
“Jonathan Pierce better be worth two million dollars,” I murmur as we walk toward the waiting car that will take us back to my home, a precautionary step should anyone plan to follow us. Millions for a culprit—though what I’ve really bought is a line of dominoes waiting to fall.
“He will be,” Brie says with certainty. “Elena just handed us the key to unraveling an entire network of legislative corruption. The FBI will be very interested in Mr. Pierce’s creative lobbying techniques, not to mention her involvement.”
I hope she’s right.
But as our car pulls away from the restaurant, I catch a glimpse of Elena in the side mirror—standing on the corner, phone pressed to her ear, watching our departure with the focused intensity of a cobra.
Two million dollars well spent, perhaps. But the true cost is yet to be determined.