Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
PATRICK
The whiskey burned a trail down my throat, doing little to quell the storm brewing in my chest. I’d chosen this dimly lit corner of Harrington’s, a wood-paneled bar tucked away in San Francisco’s financial district, precisely because it was the kind of place where men in expensive suits conducted business that wouldn’t bear scrutiny in the harsh light of day.
My mind was still back in San Jose, lingering in the sterile quiet of the hospital room I’d left only a few hours ago.
Rome was going to be fine. We’d gotten him home late this afternoon, sporting a bright neon-blue cast that he was already planning to use as a weapon against his siblings.
“The doctor said it’s a clean break,” he’d told Austin proudly, brandishing the fiberglass like a trophy.
“And I didn’t even cry when they set it.
Well, maybe a little. But only because it smelled weird. ”
Theresa had laughed—a sound of pure, exhausted relief—and seeing the tension finally leave her shoulders had solidified something dangerous in my chest. She was fighting wars on every front: holding her family together, healing her son, battling for her company.
She didn’t have the bandwidth to fight a man like Arthur Vance in the gutter.
But I did.
I took another sip of the Macallan, the peat settling heavy on my tongue. I had promised to protect them. If that meant sitting in a dark bar trading favors with the devil to save her husband’s legacy, then I’d pour the drinks myself.
I checked my watch again: 11:42 PM. Callum was late.
A waitress appeared at my elbow. “Another?”
I nodded, watching as she slid away through the thinning crowd.
The door swung open, letting in a gust of that peculiar San Francisco late summer cold, and there he was—my cousin Callum. He spotted me immediately, his eyes flickering over the remaining patrons before sliding into the booth across from me.
“Took you long enough,” I said.
Callum’s mouth quirked. “Had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”
I’d have laughed if I hadn’t known better. Callum MacKenzie didn’t make jokes about security. He could blend into any crowd while noting every exit and potential threat.
He placed a thick manila folder on the table between us, his hand remaining flat on top of it.
“It’s worse than you thought,” he said.
The waitress returned with a fresh whiskey for me, eyeing Callum with interest. “Something for you?”
“Water, please,” Callum said, not taking his eyes off me.
When she left, I reached for the folder, but Callum’s hand remained in place. “You won’t like what you find.”
“I didn’t expect to,” I replied.
Callum nodded once, then slid the folder across the table. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The first page was a corporate profile of Axiom Ventures. I’d heard the name before—one of those shadowy investment firms that specialized in hostile takeovers, stripping companies for parts and leave nothing but scorched earth behind.
“Arthur Vance has been in bed with Axiom for eighteen months,” Callum said, keeping his voice low. “They’re essentially a chop shop for promising tech companies. They acquire a controlling interest, dismantle operations, and sell off the valuable pieces to the highest bidder.”
I flipped through the pages, scanning financial records, screenshots of encrypted emails, and photographs—Arthur Vance meeting with men in restaurants, hotel lobbies, parking garages.
“Eighteen months,” I repeated. “That’s...”
“Before he was hired as CFO,” Callum confirmed. “Eight months before, to be precise.”
I took a long swallow of whiskey, needing its burn to counteract the cold spreading through my chest. “Keep going.”
“Their plan for CarideoTech is simple but effective.” Callum tapped a particular document. “Acquire fifty-one percent of shares to control the company, then strip it for parts. The continuous glucose monitoring patent would go to QuantumTech.”
“QuantumTech?” I frowned. “But they’re a competitor. Why would they—”
“To bury it,” Callum finished. “They have a profitable insulin pump business with factories, distribution. Everything in place. Theresa’s monitoring system would make their technology obsolete and hurt their entire business chain.
Better to buy the patent and make sure it never sees the light of day. ”
My stomach turned. Marco and Theresa had created something that could help millions of diabetics, something that could save lives, and Arthur was planning to sell it to people who would destroy it for profit.
“The other assets would be parceled out to various bidders,” Callum continued. “Manufacturing facilities, customer lists, secondary patents... all sold off separately to maximize returns.”
I flipped to the next section, which detailed communications between Arthur and two of Theresa’s board members: Henry Johnson and Timothy Haskins.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “He’s got board members in his pocket.”
Callum nodded. “They’ve been receiving ‘consulting fees’ from Axiom for at least a year. Johnson and Haskins helped to bring Arthur into CarideoTech as CFO.”
“So he orchestrated his own hiring.” I could see it clearly now—Arthur positioning himself inside the company, waiting for the right moment to strike.
“Precisely.” Callum leaned forward. “And when Marco died unexpectedly, Arthur saw his opportunity to fast-track everything. A grieving widow, a company in turmoil... perfect conditions for a takeover.”
“The sabotaged CFIUS filing,” I said, the pieces falling into place. “That wasn’t just incompetence. It was deliberate.”
“Manufactured crisis,” Callum agreed. “Create a problem, offer the solution. Classic play.”
I stared at the documents spread before me, a sickening realization settling in my gut. Marco’s death had been a skiing accident—I had no reason to doubt that—but Arthur had capitalized on that tragedy, using Theresa’s grief as a weapon against her.
I closed the folder, feeling physically ill. “This is everything we need, isn’t it? The board will have to act when they see this.”
“Maybe,” Callum said, his expression guarded. “Corporate boards have a remarkable ability to look the other way when it’s convenient. And Arthur’s not stupid. He’ll have contingency plans.”
The waitress brought Callum’s water, and we fell silent until she moved away again.
“What’s your play here, Patrick?” Callum asked, studying me with the same intensity he’d used when we were boys, trying to determine if I was bluffing at cards. “I know this isn’t just about business for you.”
I met his gaze steadily. “No, it’s not.”
“The woman,” Callum said. Not a question.
“Theresa,” I corrected. “And her family. And the company her husband built.”
“You’re in deep.” Again, not a question.
I simply nodded.
“And Patrick…” His expression was deadly serious now. “Arthur Vance isn’t a man who loses gracefully. When you corner a rat, it bites.”
I stood. “Thanks for this, Callum.”
“Anytime.” His eyes held mine. “She’d better be worth it.”
I thought of Theresa—that razor-sharp mind, that stubborn tenacity in her, how she’d go to battle for both her kids and her dead husband’s company with the same fire. “Trust me. She is.”
Outside my head spun with everything I’d learned. Arthur hadn’t just seized an opportunity after Marco’s death—he’d been laying groundwork for over a year, positioning himself to steal and dismantle everything Marco and Theresa had built.
I needed to tell Theresa immediately. This couldn’t wait until morning.
The nearest pay phone was half a block away, outside a closed convenience store. I fed quarters into the slot with fingers that weren’t entirely steady—from the cold, from exhaustion, from the white-hot anger burning in my chest.
I dialed Theresa’s number from memory. The phone rang once before she answered.
“Patrick?” Her voice was instantly alert despite the hour, a thread of tension running through it.
“I got the report,” I said, my voice tight with controlled fury. “We need to meet. I’m in San Francisco.”
There was a brief pause on her end. I could almost hear her processing, making rapid calculations.
“The Ritz-Carlton,” she said. “Same as before. I can be there in forty minutes.”
My pulse quickened at her choice of location—the same hotel where we’d spent our first night together. The significance wasn’t lost on me.
“Theresa—” I started, wanting to warn her how bad it was, wanting to prepare her.
“Forty minutes,” she repeated, and hung up.
I gripped the phone, my eyes shifting to the damning evidence tucked inside my briefcase.
Breaking this to Theresa wasn’t going to be pretty.
Telling her Arthur had been plotting his takeover while Marco was still breathing, then kicked his scheme into overdrive the moment her husband’s body went cold.
I grabbed a taxi and told the driver to head for the Ritz-Carlton. Pretty or not, I knew in my gut Theresa wouldn’t want me sugar-coating anything—she’d demand the raw truth, however brutal it might be.
I arrived first, securing the same suite we’d shared weeks ago. The night manager seemed to recognize me as I approached the desk at 1 AM.
“Mr. McCrae,” he said, professional but curious. “Welcome back.”
I slid a folded hundred-dollar bill across the counter, catching his eye. “My wife will be joining me shortly. When she arrives, please give her a key and send her up.”
He palmed the bill, his expression smoothing into neutrality. “Of course, sir. I’ll see to it personally.”
Up in the room, I couldn’t sit. I stalked the luxury suite, too wired to park myself anywhere, too wound up to do anything but prowl. The city lights outside the window blurred into streaks of gold and red as I paced, the folder sitting on the desk like a loaded weapon.
The knock came thirty-eight minutes after our call.