19. Elena #2
His face changes. Not much, because Adrianos's face has an extremely limited public budget, but I know it now. The stillness goes harder.
"How long before?"
"At least fourteen hours before the first report."
"He could've already been dead."
"Possible."
"Or they knew he would be."
"Also possible."
His jaw tightens. That answer bothers him more.
Good. It bothers me more too.
I rub my eyes, but Adrianos catches my wrist before my hand reaches the keyboard again.
"Enough."
I look at his fingers around me, then at his face. "What?"
"It's almost three. Go to bed."
"I've developed a working theory."
"You've developed bloodshot eyes."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
"Elena."
"No." His brows rise, but I turn back to the screen. "No, meaning I reject the recommendation. Put it in writing if you want. I'll have compliance ignore it."
"You've slept maybe three hours in two days."
"You have developed a disturbing habit of treating sleep as a financial recommendation rather than a biological necessity, so I am not accepting medical guidance from you."
"I slept."
"For forty-three minutes."
His expression shifts. "How do you know?"
"I was awake beside you."
"Counting?"
"I don't want to discuss it."
Now he smiles. Actually smiles.
"Forty-three minutes?"
"Don't make it sentimental. I was conducting a longitudinal breathing study."
"Of course."
"You passed."
"I'm relieved."
"You shouldn't be. Sample size was weak."
His thumb moves once against the inside of my wrist before he lets me go. The touch is tiny, probably thoughtless, but my body records it anyway because apparently every department is still open.
He pulls the opposite chair around and sits beside me instead of across from me. Compromise or strategy, although with Adrianos the distinction is mostly decorative.
"Twenty minutes," he says.
"What happens in twenty minutes?"
"You stop."
"That's adorable."
"Twenty-five."
"You negotiate badly when you're tired."
"Thirty."
"I'll take forty."
"You'll take thirty."
"I'll pretend you won."
"That's generally enough."
I open the next account, and he stays.
For several minutes, neither of us speaks.
It's different from the silences we've shared before.
This is work silence, his shoulder almost touching mine while my fingers move over the keyboard and his eyes follow the numbers across the screens.
There's no seduction hiding beneath it, no argument looking for a door, just two people staring at the same impossible thing.
Then Adrianos's phone lights beside his hand. He looks at it but doesn't answer. Instead, he types something short and puts the phone face down again.
I don't ask.
At present, I assume he's dealing with whatever violent billionaire men deal with at three in the morning. Probably scheduling. Murder has to be terrible for calendars.
I follow the money.
Another convergence appears, then another. Different account names, same behavior. The amounts begin accumulating in my spreadsheet until the total climbs from eight million to twelve, then thirty-one, then fifty-seven.
I stop and recalculate. Same answer.
Adrianos notices immediately. "How much?"
"That's only what I can see."
"Elena."
"Fifty-seven million across these accounts."
He doesn't react. Of course he doesn't. Fifty-seven million to Adrianos is apparently what seventeen dollars and a coupon are to normal people.
"But this is one sweep," I tell him. "One event. Petros triggered this batch. I don't know how many others exist."
I search backward and find the same recipient family three months earlier, only the convergence is smaller. Seven months ago, there's another.
My pulse begins hammering again.
"Wait."
Adrianos leans closer as I isolate one destination account and use its transaction fingerprint to search for others. Four hits appear. Then seven. I stare at the results. The accounts aren't dormant. They're holding. Not spending. Holding. Some have been accumulating for years.
Something unpleasant crawls slowly up my spine because money doesn't sit still at this scale unless somebody intends to use it.
Adrianos notices my expression. "What?"
"I don't know yet."
I need to be certain before I say it.
I pull the records again and begin checking the destination accounts properly. There are incoming transfers, but no meaningful operating expenses. No salaries. No taxes consistent with active businesses. No dividends. No acquisition spending. Just accumulation and occasional consolidation.
These are reservoirs. Financial lakes sitting behind dams, waiting for somebody to open the gates. Adrianos stands behind me now, and this time I barely notice him.
I total what I can see. The number makes my mouth go dry. And this is only what Petros touched. Only the channels that went through him.
I lean back slowly. "They're not stealing from you anymore."
Adrianos goes very still. "What are they doing?"
I look at the accounts lined across the screens. Money from companies that have no reason to know one another. Money shaved away quietly for years. Money somebody killed to protect. Money somebody is gathering faster now that we're looking.
One word arrives, cold and obvious. I turn to him.
"Saving."
Adrianos's eyes return to the screens. "For what?"
I look at the number again, at all that money sitting quietly in the dark, waiting for someone to spend it.
"I don't know."
And for the first time tonight, I wish I did. Because whatever costs this much hasn't happened yet.