TWELVE POINT FIVE
Sebastian
SOMEWHERE IN NEW YORK: Blackthorn Security Tower
I knock on the table, finally pulling her attention away from her laptop.
The command center is quiet. I can’t remember the last time it wasn’t buzzing with alerts and mission noise. I don’t miss those days.
“What?” she mumbles, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Go home to your husband and kid, Amelia,” I chuckle. “It’s almost one.”
She snorts. “Dahlia’s with Logan. And you sent my husband away on an assignment, remember?”
Ah. Shit. Right. I did do that.
“Well,” I say, sliding into the seat beside her, “now’s a good time to dig into something else, then. The cyber team two floors down got a new assignment a few weeks back. Thought you might want a look.”
“The tier three team?” Her brows furrow. “Why? Those are low-tier projects. Something happened?” She’s already logging into the system, pulling up the files.
My lips press into a line. “Astor Holdings. Yeah. That one. They’re knee-deep in a hive embezzlement ring with four other major Canadian corporations.”
“Damn,” she mutters, half amused. “Thought Canadians were supposed to be nice.” She smirks, until she spots a name on one of the files. Her smile vanishes. “What the fuck is my sister doing there?” she snaps.
“Iris is the Miller-Moore consultant on the Astor-Wentworth merger,” I confirm. “But… that’s not all.” I open another file. “The current president, Levi? He’s her ex.”
“Fucking hell.” Amelia lets out a groan. “And he’s involved in the embezzlement?”
I shake my head. “Levi’s fiancée, Cece, reached out to me. We’ve been good friends since Harvard—”
“You went to Harvard? When? For what?”
I roll my eyes and point to the screen. “So, Cece told me that they both suspect Levi’s parents and uncle are behind it. Trying to sabotage him and keep the power—and the money. Take a look at that marital clause.”
She studies the screen, brows tightening. “Who the hell creates this stupidity in this day and age? And… Iris is just there? Doing what?”
“I wasn’t gonna dig, but it turns out she competed to win the account. Chose the project.”
Her jaw drops. “I’ll—fuck. I’ll call her. Christ.”
I smile at her exasperation. “Figured you’d want to know. Still wild to think she’s the same little menace who used to run around in pigtails in your front yard.”
“God.” Amelia shakes her head, laughing. “You called her a menace once. Pissed me the hell off. She was the bane of my existence growing up—but my bane.”
I laugh softly. “She was what—eight? When I moved in next door to you guys? Dylan was so furious when she punched my thigh for ‘stealing her brother.’”
Her eyes glaze with nostalgia. “I miss those days. Things were so…”
“Simple,” I finish.
She nods, but then frowns, eyes flicking over the screen. “Wait… They—huh!”
She starts typing furiously, then grabs her phone.
I watch her call Kabir, her husband, the tech genius who’s currently on an active mission. Guy still picks up. Why wouldn’t he?
“Heer? Everything okay?” His voice crackles through the speaker.
“All good. Need a favor,” she says, still typing. “Just sent you a company name. Can you patternize their embezzlement history over the last… forty years? Make it indictment-worthy?”
“Embezzlement? Fancy.” Kabir sounds way too cheerful. “Gimme a second.”
The line goes quiet for about twenty seconds, except for faint gunfire in the background. Nothing dramatic enough to faze Amelia.
Seconds later, a file pops onto her screen.
“There you go,” Kabir says smoothly. “Anything else, Heeriye?”
“Nope. We’re good.” Amelia grins, victorious. “Thanks, Jaan. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby. Be back by morning. Say hi to Iris for me.”
I chuckle. The bastard found that little detail, I guess.
The call ends. Amelia glances at me with a deadpan expression. “Well, that was nice and easy. The Astors are done for.”
I stand, laughing. “I’m starving. Let’s go. Late dinner.”
“Oooh! Chhole Bhature,” she chirps as we walk out.
“Ugh. I’d prefer a lasagna alla bolognese.”
She snorts. “Elitist.”
We’re nearly in my car when I deadpan, “That’s literally a fifty-dollar dish.”
“I don’t trust you rich fuckers,” she huffs, sliding into the passenger seat. “Chhole bhature. Any day.”
I shake my head, knowing full well I’ll be having another Indian dinner with Amelia Gill—née Desmond.