Chapter 3
COLE
My first reaction is to pin down the girl—shove her against the nearby doorframe, twist her arm behind her back high enough to make her beg, and pinch the pressure point in her wrist until her empty glass shatters on the floor.
My second reaction is to add up her aggressive makeup and too-tight skirt—she looks like the textbook illustration for a Baby Daddy scam. A blood test would get any mark off the hook; she’s counting on a quick cash settlement, pennies on the dollar to make her embarrassing presence go away fast.
My third reaction is to measure the narrowing of her eyes, the flaring of her nostrils, and the trembling of her lower lip. Either she’s the best actress I’ve seen since Nutmeg ran her first con under Shannon’s watchful eye, or she’s not acting. This girl—this woman—hates me.
I’m not opposed to making enemies. That’s how I’ve built a billion-dollar empire with my thirtieth birthday still seven months away. But I pride myself on knowing exactly who I’ve ruined, every step of my climb to the top. I’d remember this woman if I’d ever set eyes on her before.
It’s not just her tight-wired body, confined in clothes that have no place at a black-tie wedding.
It’s not her wide green eyes, or her shock of dark red curls, or her pale, pale skin that makes me wonder if she has freckles everywhere or just across the bridge of her nose.
It’s not even the long, tapered fingers that still clutch her champagne glass, hands that look made for dipping into pockets, for separating idiots from their treasured possessions without a hint of contact.
It’s the set of her jaw. The toss of her head. Her utter defiance as she stares me down.
I’ve waited too long. Patrick Moran—the bridegroom who’s half the reason we’re gathered here today—swipes at her arm. But it’s Braiden Kelly who gets there first.
I’ve known Kelly for years; we both keep a healthy share of our wealth at Diamond Freeport, a tax haven in Delaware.
In fact, we were just talking to Trap Prince, the man who owns the freeport.
Before Prince stepped away to take a call, he was telling us about new manufacturing facilities on tax haven grounds, another way to multiply wealth while staying under the radar of government watchdogs.
I know Kelly as a billionaire investor, but I’m fully aware he’s the leader of the Irish mob throughout the United States. General, they call him. Every Irish crime family in America answers to him.
Which means the woman who threw champagne in my face may have bitten off more than she intended.
Kelly’s fingers close over her biceps, pinching her black shirt tight. He waits until she flinches, then tightens his grip, driving home his point. Crossing the room, his strides are long as he half-drags the woman beside him.
They stop in front of a man who looks like he sells cheap suits off the back of a truck. The guy’s face has gone the pasty white of someone about to faint. Kelly releases his captive with a firm twist of his wrist, shoving her hard enough that she must stagger to keep her feet.
“Barry Lynch,” Kelly says. “Mind your daughter.”
Lynch gulps, and his face flushes scarlet.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Starts to make some sort of excuse but decides to take out his frustration on his daughter instead.
He’s short and he’s fat, but he’s stronger than he looks.
Clamping a hand on the back of her neck, he marches her out of the room, ignoring both the incandescent rage that ignites across her face and the gawking stares of onlookers.
“Sir.” My attention is pulled away from the drama by a waiter offering a linen napkin. He looks wary, like he’s afraid he’s lighting some sort of fuse. I’m sure there are plenty of wedding guests who’d throw a fit after being assaulted with a flute of Dom Perignon.
But I’m not the fit-throwing type.
So I mop at my face, sponging away the worst of the damage. There’s nothing to do about my soaked shirt, so I don’t even try. It’ll dry, soon enough.
Before I can hand off the napkin, the bride herself makes her way through the crowd. Capturing Moran’s arm between both her hands, Fiona smiles and says, “If I could steal Patrick for a moment.”
Lucky man—he goes willingly. That leaves me with Prince, who’s shoving his phone into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He’s scowling like he’s waiting for a root canal.
“Bad news?” I ask.
“Goddamn motherfucking asswipe,” Prince mutters.
“Could you be a bit more specific?” I ask. He could be talking about anyone from the waiter who skipped bringing us foie gras canapés to the Internal Revenue Service commissioner who has personally vowed to shut down the freeport. Prince is an equal-opportunity cursing machine.
“That was Jurgenson.”
Clay Jurgenson—the guy in charge of the freeport’s massive banks of computers.
Just last week, Jurgenson hired me to do a hacking analysis on all freeport systems. I have until the first of May to see how many back doors I can kick in, then I get to build all new security.
It’s a dream job, paying a cool two mill for a month’s work.
But the thunder darkening Prince’s face jams an icicle into my gut. “Someone’s hacked the freeport?” I ask.
Prince shakes his head. “Worse.”
I wait for Prince to clarify. I’m not sure what could be worse, but I know he wouldn’t have started this conversation if he didn’t intend to tell me more.
“Jurgenson just got off the phone with his counterpart at Geneva Freeport,” Prince finally says. “Pussy says he heard from Interpol about rumors on the motherfucking dark web…”
Prince drains his own glass of champagne like he’s taking medicine. The icicle in my belly expands into a glacier, squeezing my lungs and slowing my heart rate. “Out with it,” I say.
Prince does me the courtesy of meeting my gaze. “They know Lone Wolf saved Banque Wagner Privée.”
I grimace. There’s a reason I keep my client list private. If too many people find out—
“A goddamn target list just showed up on the dark web,” Prince says.
Of course it did. Target list. Hit list. Kill list. Whatever you call it, it’s a red flag the size of Russia to anyone hiring Lone Wolf Enterprises.
Now that my defeat of Red Cap is public, every hacker in the world will want to take a swipe at Lone Wolf, show off his coding chops, prove he can beat the best.
“And Diamond Freeport is in the fucking bull’s-eye,” Prince concludes.
Ice crackles up my spine to my brain. Eighteen months ago, Hans Wagner was reluctant to trust his computer system to anyone outside of Switzerland. I only landed Banque Wagner after sharing a list of my key clients—with the reluctant permission of those accounts—Diamond Freeport included.
“I gave Wagner your name in strictest confidence,” I say.
“Well, the jizzstain has a different definition of confidence than you do.” Prince spits out a trail of blistering curses. “Jurgenson says fuckholes’ll try to break in, just to prove they’re better than you.”
A menthol-sharp wind howls through my brain. I want to say Jurgenson’s lying, but I always tell my clients the truth. “We can bulk up defenses,” I say.
“You’re off the job.”
I lower my voice to counter my useless fury with Wagner. “You need the security testing. And I’m good enough to fend off any jackass from the internet.”
Prince shakes his head. His mind is made up. “Lone Wolf is too hot right now. I’ll have a ten percent kill fee deposited to your account by midnight.”
I don’t want a fucking kill fee. I want to prove I’m the best at what I do.
But I won’t prove anything by arguing with a client—correction, former client—in the middle of a wedding reception. I start to shake Prince’s hand, to prove I’m a team player and remind him he’s making a mistake. But then I remember Prince avoids physical contact whenever possible.
I settle for eyeing him levelly. “No hard feelings,” I say, even though my feelings about Wagner are as hard as fucking granite. “Call me when you realize no one else can do the job.”
My rate will be double by then. That’s the way the game is played.
“No hard feelings.” Prince echoes my words.
I’m halfway across the room before I find a waiter to take the champagne-soaked napkin I used to dry my face.
Fiona has disappeared, along with her groom, so I don’t need to make any excuses to them.
Instead, I make my way past the guards at the front door and head down the sidewalk toward my rented BMW.
A crescent moon hangs over the townhouses across the street. It’s quiet out here. My ears feel like they’re plugged with cotton wool after the volume of the party. It’s cool, too, the late March breeze biting through my tuxedo jacket.
I pass an open gate, set back a few feet from the sidewalk. It’s the entrance to a side yard filled with three catering vans. I’m almost past the shadowed fence when I hear the unmistakable yelp of a woman in distress.
“Shut yer feckin’ mouth, ya stupid slag!” The threat is half-shouted, half-hissed in the darkness, deeper than the cry that stopped me.
“You’re hurting me!” It’s only three words, but I recognize the voice. It’s the woman who threw champagne in my face. Her tone is pleading now, far more desperate.
I push past the gate and into the side yard.
She’s there—Lynch’s daughter. That’s the same milky face, the same angry makeup, but now streaks of black line her cheeks. Her lips twist in a snarl as she tries to break free from an older woman whose hands are tangled in her wildfire of curly hair.
“You need to think about consequences!” Every other word of the whisper-shout is accompanied by a sharp tug.
“Please, Mam. I was thinking about Da. About the money he needs. About the money I—”
“Shut yer feckin’ mouth!” The older woman shifts her grip, closing wiry fingers around the front of her daughter’s throat, digging into the voice box like she’s attempting surgery.
“Mam,” the girl chokes out. “I can’t—”
“If anyone inside that dún hears a word about you giving money to your da—”
“They won’t,” the girl gasps, sinking to her knees. “Not from me. I promise.”
That vicious grip tightens. “Just, for once, think of your poor sister!”
The girl’s choking is real. She’s scratching at her mother’s wrist. “Mam,” she croaks. “Please—”
“No man in the world will ever think about marrying Breagha.” A furious shake, like a dog with a bone. “Not with you in the family.”
“M—” The word dies in a strangled cough as those claws dig deeper.
I don’t shout. I don’t need to. I simply speak from the shadows before I close my fingers around the older woman’s wrist. “Enough.”