Chapter 20
COLE
I’ve been awake, showered, and dressed for almost four hours, poring over the computer code that has obsessed me for the past week.
I originally pitched the Money Box to Barry Lynch because I thought it would be a useful tool to keep him from monopolizing my time.
But it took me less than a day to realize the con has far greater potential: It can take down Pyotr Tarasov.
My father-in-law and the bratva brigadier seem newly joined at the hip as Lynch tries to sell his remaining daughter to the Russians. I figure Lynch will sweeten the pot by throwing in my custom software within forty-eight hours of receiving my code.
Once Tarasov has it, Kate and I will get a birds-eye view of every website the Russian tries to access. We’ll see his bank accounts. His investment strategies. We’ll know the entire structure of the Baltimore bratva, along with every man he tries to intimidate and every woman he fucks.
But Tarasov adds a high level of risk to the entire con.
Lynch doesn’t have the chops to spot any fake program; I could have finished four days ago if I only had to fool him.
Tarasov, though, is actually an extremely skilled hacker.
He proved that through all the years he ran with Kate and her Red Cap Raiders.
So I just have to be better.
That’s why I’m reviewing the output protocols for the fifth time, inspecting every line of code to guarantee nothing sends up a flare. I’d actually be through with this part of the project if I weren’t repeatedly distracted by memories of last night.
Kate tied down in front of me…
Kate straining for release without me…
Kate calling me Master…
It’s all there, in my mind. I haven’t even begun to view the cameras’ footage. I don’t need to.
My phone rings at a quarter to seven. Uncomfortably, I shift to reach it, adjusting the crotch of my black dress pants. When I answer, Fiona Moran’s voice is as tight as the corsets she used to wear to business meetings.
“I’m not imagining these problems,” she says.
“Of course you aren’t,” I say, because the client is always right. Even when the client is a young woman managing her first business venture—Boston’s Irish mob. And when that client has already rejected three of my best employees.
“I’m missing half my accounts,” Fiona says.
She’s running a criminal enterprise worth billions of dollars. The layers of bank accounts, foreign and domestic, would be confusing to an accountant who’s spent years in the business. Fiona has been running her clan for barely a year.
“You aren’t missing your accounts,” I say, because Chase Madison wouldn’t have done that to her. Madison has an MBA from Stanford, and he’s been coding since he was five. He has the best paper credentials of any employee I’ve ever hired for Lone Wolf.
As I speak, I pull my keyboard close. Typing in a complicated string of numbers and letters from memory, I help myself to the back door of Fiona’s computer system. “You just misunderstood—”
She hasn’t misunderstood.
The accounts are missing from her dashboard, but they aren’t actually gone. All of the details still exist, the complicated net of usernames and passwords, but a vital connection has been cut.
“Hold on,” I say, pulling up an activity log. I immediately see Fiona’s login attempts this morning, repeated with increasing frequency as she tried to access the suspended accounts. I work my way through the time stamps to yesterday, the day before…
There. Friday afternoon. There’s a sloppy bit of coding; it looks like Madison was trying to consolidate updates to make his own task easier.
“This will take a few minutes,” I say.
“I’ll wait.” Fiona’s voice is dry. I’d prefer for her to hang up so I can type in peace, but she’s the one who’s been inconvenienced. She gets to decide.
I string together a pair of files and pull some information from archives. I see the same mistake repeated for accounts in Monaco and again for records on the Isle of Man. Now that I know what I’m looking for, it’s easy to back out the defective code.
“There,” I say. “Try it on your end.”
I hear the clack of fingernails on a keyboard.
A repeat. Again. “All right,” she says. “It’s all there.
” She takes a moment to review the records.
On my screen, I can see her opening files and closing them, tracing her assets with admirable efficiency.
“Wolf?” She finally says. “This was sloppy work.”
“You’re right,” I say. She’s too smart for me to lie to.
“I can’t use sloppy.”
“I understand that.”
“People in my line of work get killed over sloppy.”
From another Irish mob captain, those words would be a threat.
But I’m certain Fiona hasn’t forgotten how I bailed her out of a tight spot when she was fighting for control of her clan.
She won’t order a hit on me. She won’t even try to back out of the open-ended favor she still owes me from those early days. “I’ll speak to Madison,” I say.
“I don’t want you speaking to anyone. I need someone new.”
“I don’t have anyone new. I promise, Madison is my best.”
“It seems like I’ve heard that before. Three other times, in fact.”
“Fiona…” I’m out of options for Lone Wolf staffers to put on her account.
“Wolf.” She doesn’t complain. She doesn’t make my name a challenge. She’s a professional businesswoman demanding the service she’s paid for.
“I’ll monitor everything myself,” I say. “Every step Madison takes. Nothing will hit your system before it’s crossed my desk.”
“And when the next problem comes up?”
I want to say there won’t be a next problem, but I can’t make that promise. “You have my personal guarantee your work will be done properly.”
She hesitates for a moment, but she finally gives in. “This is his last chance.”
“Last chance,” I confirm.
I end the call and look up to find Kate standing in the doorway. Her lips are still swollen from where she bit them last night. She’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and her hair runs wild, as if she’s barely combed it with her fingers.
She’s never looked more desirable.
“Good morning,” she says, sounding shy.
“Good morning.” I smile.
Something comes unpinned in her shoulders, and I recognize the softness of her sigh. It’s relief. For just a moment, I wonder what she has to be relieved about, but then the penny drops.
She thought I’d make her call me Master.
I could do it. I could bring our dungeon games upstairs and put her in a collar—a diamond, a pearl, maybe just a chain. I could order her to wear my brand day and night because she’s my sub. We could make this a total power exchange.
She’d fight me, of course, because Kate fights everyone. I’d win, because she’d use her safeword if she truly wanted out.
But I don’t want to collar her. That’s not what I need and not what she deserves. Managing Kate requires my most concentrated attention, my finest control. We both need breaks from the wild power we release downstairs.
I nearly ruined everything at the Andersons last night. Taking Kate to the dungeon once we got home was a way to restore balance. Watching her fall apart—knowing I did that for her—healed some of the damaged parts inside me.
That’s why I denied myself. Penance. Control.
So no, I don’t need Kate calling me Master here, in my office, in the public parts of our house.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask, because I know she’ll blush.
I’m right. And the color in her cheeks raises my cock against my zipper with a new vigor.
“Very,” she says. “How long have you been up?”
I glance at the stone-cold cup of coffee I brewed hours before sunrise. “A while.”
She nods toward my phone. “That sounded like a demanding client.”
I shrug.
“Was it Da?”
I shake my head. “Believe it or not, your father isn’t the most difficult of my clients.”
“I don’t believe that.”
As if on cue, a text comes in. I start to make a glib comment, but the words freeze on my lips when I see the number. My blackmailer. And today is the first of the month, their deadline for one hundred million dollars.
“I need to take care of this,” I say.
Her eyes turn sly. She’s thinking about crossing the room. Maybe climbing onto my lap or kneeling between my feet. She wants to lure me upstairs, to start the day a second time, slow and lazy.
I wonder when I learned to read Kate’s mind.
“Go,” I say gently, picking up my phone. Her pout is pretty, but she turns away. I long to call her back. Instead, I pull up a venomous text.
The press will have a field day
They’ve attached a copy of my signed confession, admitting to all the crimes that will devastate Lone Wolf Enterprises.
Cole Wolf
I need more time
You’re a fucking billionaire
One hundred mill has to come from somewhere
You’ve had two weeks
I need four more
One
You’re bleeding me dry
You don’t know what dry is
I can’t do this in less than a month
There’s a pause, while triplets of bubbles boil on my screen.
I learned my lesson last month. If I pay this shark, they’ll only come back for more.
The longer I can string them along, the greater the chance I can figure out who has the connections to get hold of my juvie record and the know-how to hide their identity.
The bubbles finally disappear.
Two weeks
But the vig is twenty percent
120 mill by June 14
Vig. Whoever’s raking me over the coals is used to loansharking. Or maybe they just watched a lot of The Sopranos.
I can raise the money—liquidate some investments, sell a handful of paintings. But once I pay one twenty, they’ll make another demand. And another one after that, and after that again, forever.
The only way to kill this snake is to cut off its head. But I don’t even have a grip on its fucking body.
Fine. 120. June 14.
They don’t reply, but I don’t truly expect them to. Instead, I start reviewing every text I’ve ever received from the blackmailer, searching for something, anything that will give me a clue to their identity.