Chapter 13 Riley
RILEY
Ilean against the wall of the stinky service elevator as it rattles its way up to the eighth floor.
This is the third time this week Rafe has dragged me to the pharmaceutical offices, and each trip feels more degrading than the last. I'm not allowed to walk through the main lobby.
I'm not allowed to take the regular elevators.
I get shuttled up and down in this industrial cage like cargo, hidden from view, as if my existence here is something shameful.
I get it. He thinks he's protecting me from his enemies, and maybe he really is, but he's also protecting himself.
My face has been plastered all over the news in New York because my parents and that retired state patrolman are really looking for me.
He doesn't want me seen by anyone because it would ruin his plans.
The doors grind open, and I step out into the back hallway.
Feodor's waiting for me, like he was the last few times I had to make this trip.
Rafe is at some meeting across town, coordinating shipments or handling whatever crisis has erupted today.
I don't ask anymore. I just sit at his desk, pull out the laptop, and start working through the files he's given me.
I've learned well enough by now that something is sparking between us. But I'm not stupid enough to think Rafe won't actually go through with the plan to harm my sister if I step out of line. I'd be an idiot to trust him, and I'm not that foolish.
A sandwich sits on the corner of the desk, wrapped in deli paper, and I unwrap it while pulling up the August financials.
It's a gourmet turkey wrap, exactly the kind of thing Rafe would order for me because he takes the time to study everything I do and like.
I've never been sure what to think of that.
Maybe he's manipulating me, but then why would he say what he said to me in his kitchen a few days ago if he didn't mean it? Do men say things they don't mean in the middle of sex just to push a woman's buttons?
I take a bite and chew mechanically, my eyes scanning the rows of data on the screen.
I've been rebuilding these records for weeks now, piecing together the banker's fractured system, filling in the gaps Marco left when he died.
I'm halfway through August, and the work is tedious, repetitive, mind-numbing.
But I'm good at it. I've always been good at finding patterns, spotting inconsistencies, making numbers align.
It's one of the reasons I went into this field of work.
Though I'd prefer to help with loan analysis, not this forensic crap.
Rafe just managed to weasel me into a grey area that isn't absolute torture.
I could probably enjoy doing this for a living if the businesses were legit and not smoke screens for criminal acts.
But my keen intellect can pick up a foul stench miles away.
That's why I notice the anomaly immediately.
I stop chewing and lean closer to the screen, narrowing my eyes at a series of transfers, all dated within the same week, all routed through a shell account I haven't seen before.
The amounts are significant—fifty thousand here, seventy-five thousand there—but they're structured to avoid triggering automated alerts.
Small enough to slip under the radar. Large enough to add up quickly over time.
I click on the first transaction and pull up the details. The recipient account is registered to a consulting firm based in Albany. I run a search on the firm's name and find a website with generic stock photos and vague descriptions of "government relations services."
A front. Obviously.
So I dig deeper, cross-referencing the account numbers with other entries in the ledger, and the pattern becomes clear. These aren't payments for services. They're bribes.
My stomach tightens.
I pull up the next transaction and find another consulting firm, this one based in Buffalo, with the exact same setup and structure as the last. I keep scrolling, and with every new entry the picture grows sharper and more damning.
The recipients are prominent New York politicians, high-ranking law-enforcement officials, and even state and federal judges—names that appear regularly in the news and carry real authority.
Each of them receives steady six-figure payments funneled through layers of shell accounts and phantom businesses.
Yet nowhere in the ledger, the attached folders, or the entire drive is there a single invoice, contract, receipt, or any scrap of evidence that legitimate services were ever provided.
There are only clean, recurring deposits that purchase silence, favors, and deliberate blindness to everything Rafe does.
I sit back in the chair with my heart pounding. This is bigger than money laundering or illegal drugs or weapons shipments. This is corruption at the highest levels, a network of complicity that reaches into the state government and beyond.
And I'm sitting here, staring at all of it.
My gaze drifts toward the door. Feodor's outside standing guard, but he's not watching me through the glass. I can see the back of his head, and his attention is focused on his damn cell phone. He has no clue what I'm looking at and I don't even know if I'm supposed to be looking at this.
None of this is in my wheelhouse and nothing I see here is part of the orders Rafe gave me. This stuff isn't in the ledgers. I'm just supposed to be comparing Lombardi's handwritten notations to the company statements and I know Rafe's not stupid enough to let me see all this shit openly.
But this is really fucked up stuff. He might stake some ridiculous claim to me, but his boss has no problem calling me nothing but an asset. If he knows that I've discovered this information, he'll flip the fuck out. I'll be dead before dawn.
I open the top desk drawer slowly, careful not to make noise, and pull out a small flash drive.
My hands are shaking as I plug it into the laptop and start copying files.
The progress bar crawls across the screen, agonizingly slowly, and I keep glancing at the door, waiting for Feodor to turn around or Rafe to walk in and catch me.
This is sketchy shit. Really bad news for them and for every one of these politicians too.
And it just might be my ticket to actual freedom when this is all over with.
I have no clue what Rafe has planned for me.
For now I seem to be his star analyst or something, and of course, his sex pet.
But when he's done with me, I'm not sure his desire to bend me over a table and pull my hair will make his boss keep me around.
This information is my backup plan. I could turn state's evidence and get real protection from the US Marshals.
The download completes, and I eject the drive, shoving it into my shoe.
Walking around on something biting into my sole will suck, but not as much as losing my life or freedom over something that I should never have been involved in.
Those idiots took me right off the street and now I'm basically one of them.
If the Feds find out I've been hacking things like banks and burying evidence, I'll go to prison as fast as Rafe and his boss.
This drive can protect me from that.
I close the drawer and pull up the wrap again, forcing myself to take another bite even though my appetite's gone. My mind's racing now, spinning through possibilities and feeling desperate and cagey.
Rafe may have softened toward me and let his guard down after what happened between us, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm a liability. Eventually, he'll decide I know too much. Or maybe it'll be his boss who will decide I'm not worth the risk.
And when that happens, I need to be ready.
I'm halfway through another entry when I hear voices in the outer office. They’re muffled at first, but they're growing louder.
One of the voices is very distinct and I'd know it like I know my father's voice.
It's Rafe and he sounds very tense. The other voice I believe is his uncle, Sal.
I'd bet my life on it. I remember the dirty rumble of his deep tone and it makes me feel sick to my stomach.
"We need to lean on our friendlies," Sal says. "If the girl can't fabricate the records in time, we'll need political cover. Call in favors and make sure the right people are looking the other way."
"I'm handling it," Rafe replies, but I don't like the way he says it. He sounds impatient and hesitant.
"That woman has every reason to betray you, Raphaelos." He draws the name out in a thick slur that sounds like a treat. "She'll cut you the instant you turn your back."
"I know," Rafe says in a lower tone, but it's unmistakable. I don't think he really agrees with his uncle, but in this case he has to at least acknowledge him. It's almost like Rafe wants to defend me but he's afraid of the man or something. I get that. He's scary. And that makes me nervous.
There's a pause, then Sal speaks again. "The girl is dispensable, Rafe. If she doesn't do her job well, if she becomes a problem, she can be ended easily. Do you understand?"
My breath catches. I press my hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound, and I feel my pulse hammering in my ears.
"I understand," Rafe says, but there's hesitation in his voice. It's a beat too long before he answers. I hear it, and I wonder if Sal hears it too.
"Good," he says, "and while you're at it, remind our friendlies what's at stake. Their families. Their children. Make sure they understand that cooperation isn't optional."
"I'll take care of it."
"See that you do. We're running out of time, and I won't tolerate mistakes."
The voices fade, and I hear footsteps moving down the hallway. I stay frozen in the chair with my hand still pressed over my mouth, my entire body trembling.
So "friendlies" is what he's calling those politicians and law enforcement officials, and he's talking about threatening their families if they don't cooperate. My God, what sort of sick game is this man playing?
The door opens, and Rafe walks in. His expression is grim, his jaw tight, and he stops when he sees me sitting at the desk. His eyes flick to the laptop, then back to my face.
"How much did you hear?" he asks.
I swallow hard. "Enough."
He closes the door behind him and crosses the room, leaning against the edge of the desk. He's close enough now that I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.
He's battling internally and I can only hope it's because he wants to protect me, but I still don't trust him.
He doesn't know I know what "friendlies" are, but at this point it doesn’t matter.
I heard Don Salvatore Ferretti threaten women and children.
It'd never be enough for a conviction but to a man who might easily discard me without a stain on his conscience, it's enough for an assassination.
"Did you get more done?" he asks, sighing heavily.
I want to pry my thoughts away from those names on that list, but I can't. I've heard some of those names. I know the faces of their wives I've seen on TV, and some have children who are barely in grade school.
"Uh, yeah," I grunt, realizing I still have half of my lunch. No way I'm eating that now. I'll just throw it up. "I'm done through August or so…"
"I need it done, Riley—immediately. No more time to waste.
" This time when Rafe reminds me of what he expects from me, it doesn't come with a gun or a picture of my sister as a warning.
All I see is a man staring down an impossible problem, like the little island in the ocean bearing down under the category five hurricane, praying for a miracle.
"I got it," I tell him, but I don't "got" it. I don't have anything.
I'm a trembling wreck as he turns his back and walks over to his water cooler to get a drink.
If the storm is coming, it’s coming for me, and it's coming for those women and children Salvatore Ferretti may harm if I fail. I can't let that happen.
Not for my sake, and not for theirs.
And Rafe will just have to be the umbrella for now, because I can already feel the first droplets of rain ready to saturate me in their wake.