Chapter 17 Riley
RILEY
The screen glows in front of me, folders within folders within folders, all of them hiding something ugly.
I've been staring at transaction logs for so long the numbers have started to blur together, but Rafe's still standing behind me, watching over my shoulder as my fingers move across the keyboard.
"There," he says, leaning closer. His hand rests on the back of my chair and I don’t know if he even knows it, but his fingers are gently scratching my shoulder every few seconds. "That one. The Albany account."
I click into the folder and rows of payments appear.
All of them are routed through a consulting firm that probably doesn't have an office or employees or anything resembling legitimate business.
It's just a name on paper and a bank account that funnels money to people who are supposed to be upholding the law, not colluding with criminals.
My cursor hovers over the files.
"Delete them?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. This is wrong. It's so fucking wrong.
"Yes."
I think about the consequences for this.
All those political ties to Salvatore Ferretti are just being hidden.
The connections will remain and those men will still be paid off and have a gun to the heads of their wives and children, but Ferretti will walk away clean as a whistle because of my work.
It's agonizing, too, to know the risk I'm taking and that if Ferretti does end up harming those women or children, there will be no tie back to him, and thus, no justice.
"Well?" Rafe asks, and I heave out a sigh.
This isn't what I thought I'd be doing today.
Hell, this isn't what I thought I'd be doing with my life at all.
A month ago, I was filing expense reports and helping elderly customers reset their PIN codes.
Now I'm erasing evidence of bribes paid to judges and politicians, and the man who kidnapped me is standing so close I can smell his cologne.
I click the delete button and the file vanishes off into the void wherever deleted files go, knowing I'll have to wipe the hard drive thoroughly if it's going to be completely erased. But that thumb drive I have in my duffel bag acts as a cushion for my desperate soul that needs comfort. I do have a record of some of this. I could actually make a difference if it becomes necessary. That doesn’t make me feel any better about it, though.
"You're good at this," Rafe says.
I ignore his praise because it sickens me that I've stooped so low as to cover up his crimes.
It's not just rebuilding financials so he can withstand an audit.
This isn't like actuating accounts or balancing a checkbook.
This is blatant cover-up and I'm the one doing it.
And I can't even say I'm doing it under duress anymore.
Every time I look into Rafe's eyes, all I see is that little boy who got a gun for Christmas instead of the toy he wanted.
I'm fucked in the head and there's no way to fix it.
I pull up the Buffalo files next and start sorting through them.
It's just more payments, more shell companies, and more people who took money and turned their backs.
Every time I find one, Rafe tells me to delete it, and I do.
My fingers move faster now, and I try not to think too hard about what I'm actually doing.
Hours pass and my back starts to ache. My eyes feel dry and scratchy. And even Rafe gets tired and pulls up a chair beside me. But I keep working through the files, removing every trace of Rafe's connection to criminal things to make his pharmaceutical company look straight.
Then I find a folder labeled with his initials, "RF".
I click on it without thinking, and suddenly, the screen is full of documents I wasn't supposed to see.
The file shows Rafe's personal kickbacks from transactions that have no financial bearing on company records.
Payouts from shipments that were made to his personal accounts aside from company finances, and they coincide with legitimate transactions from drug distributers and shipping manifests from honest pharmaceutical transfers.
I freeze.
Rafe Ferretti is smuggling cocaine and fentanyl through Next Gen and taking payments that are then laundered through the establishment.
It's how he's so fucking wealthy, and it's how the FBI can take him down.
This file is like a crashed airliner's black box and if anyone saw it, they'd know every dirty thing he's done for the past five years of running this company.
Rafe must notice the change in my posture because my entire body is rigid. My fingers hover over the keys and I can feel my face going pale as blood drains from it. He wants me to delete this, and if I don't do it, what sort of person am I?
"I'll get you something to eat," he says. "You've been at this for hours." He stands and the chair scratches on the floor, but I don't answer. I hear him walk away toward the kitchen, and then I'm alone with the screen and the decision staring me in the face.
Delete the folder—save him. But I'd make myself even more complicit in all of this than I already am.
Or leave it, and let the Feds find it. And I'd watch him go down for everything he's done.
My hand moves to the delete button but stops there, trembling.
What am I doing?
My eyes press closed and I suck in a deep breath, but all I can see is the sad face of a younger version of Rafe Ferretti as he asks for a toy and receives a gun as a gift instead.
He was forced into this life. It's what I tell myself, but I know everyone gets a choice.
Mine is staring back at me from a computer screen right now, and I don't know what choice to make.
He's not holding a gun to my head. He didn't ask me to delete the file.
He didn't even threaten me. But I know what he expects.
Then I think about Lila trying on her wedding dress. About my mother standing on our porch with tears streaming down her face wondering where I am. About my father's voice cracking when he asked anyone who knew where I was to come forward.
I don’t have to do this. And Rafe didn't have to obey his evil, wretched father. He could've gone to his teacher or the police. He could've asked for help. But here he is, a grown man who's tangled up in the biggest crime syndicate in New York, and I'm staring at his evil deeds in real time.
My eyes burn, but I don't let myself cry.
Feeling sorry for myself and the tough spot I'm in won't change anything.
It will keep me locked in my emotions where I'll make dumb decisions.
And this one should be easy for me. Delete the file, protect Lila and my parents.
It's that easy. Then all the heat is on me and if anyone goes down, it protects the people I care most about.
"You okay?" I hear, and I look up to see Rafe walk in with a plate. He sets it next to me while I force a very fake smile and see how he cut the sandwich in half from corner to corner. He's hulled the strawberries and unwrapped a cheese stick. It's so thoughtful I can't stop a tear from escaping.
"I'm alright," I mutter, but my voice breaks on the word and I choke back a sob.
This isn't fair. I shouldn't be here. Life is hard enough as it is trying to be a single woman in a big city starting out on her own without any support or strong friendships nearby.
I know Rafe didn't purposefully single me out and hunt me down with the intent to enslave me, but dammit if I don't feel angry anyway.
I should have a good life now, something people would be envious of.
"Hey," he says, forcing my spinning chair around so that I'm facing him. The food is forgotten on the plate as he uses a thumb to wipe away a tear and makes me look up at him.
"I can't do this, Rafe. I can't—"
"Shh," he coaxes, pulling me against his chest where I let more tears fall. I'm not a crybaby. I don't cry easily at all. This whole time, I don't think I've shed more than a few tears. I'm stubborn and bullheaded and I don't let people intimidate me, but this is destroying my conscience.
He holds me for a second while I get my composure back and wipe the rest of the tears from my eyes, and then he lets me go, handing me the napkin he brought so I can wipe my face clean and blow my nose.
When I'm composed, he rests both hands on my knees and says, "I need you, Riley."
The words sting a little. I know what he needs and it's leaving me in the toughest position of my life. "I know… to delete the files."
"No," Rafe responds calmly, and feeling dumbstruck, I look up at his eyes. They’re stern, focused solely on me as he says, "I need you, Riley Maddox, not the skills you possess or the access you've created to background programs and files. You. I need you in my life and I need you to be safe."
Rafe has told me I belong to him, but that was in the middle of sex. When I thought he was just making me say things to push his buttons. And yes, he told me I wasn't just an asset, but I'm not sure I believed that at the time. But this feels different.
"I don’t understand," I say softly, still wiping my face.
"You don't need to understand anything except that I want you in my life, not just for this project, but forever. And if you can't stomach my job or the things I do, I understand. But if you want to be in my life like I want you here, then you have to do what you have to do to be safe…."
His eyes track to the computer and he frowns.
"If you think leaving those files is right, then do it.
But you have to understand that if the Feds go digging, those things Lombardi lined up to take me down—they'll take us both down.
" This time, when he looks me in the eye, I see the concern there.
"Because I'm not letting you go. I want you. "
I feel entirely speechless, staring at him blankly because what am I supposed to say to that?
It's not like either of us planned to feel the spark we share. And Rafe doesn't appear to be the type of guy who kidnaps women off the street and falls in love with them. This took us both by surprise.
He's not the only one who feels so strongly about it, either.
When I think about what life would be like if I go back to my boring job as a bank teller, doing night classes in the evening, so busy I don't have time for a social life, I can't stand it.
I hated being alone, but I told everyone I was fine because a single woman is supposed to be paving a path for her future, right?
"Rafe," I start, and he presses a finger to my lips.
"I'm giving you the choice, Riley, because I trust you to not break my heart. Unless you don't care at all, and then I'm sorry I failed you so badly."
The apology is barely out before a choked sob erupts from my throat. "Rafe, I want you too. I mean… I don’t need you. I can live without you. But I would be lying if I said I'd enjoy that."
I turn, reaching for the track pad, and click the delete button, then watch the progress bar fill until the file vanishes. "I guess we're in this together now."
His hand cups my cheek but he doesn't respond to me.
I still see a darkness in his eyes, something that scares me a little.
I worry that somehow he's manipulating me, that this is how he's going to motivate me to keep working hard, by playing toward my need for completion, a craving for someone by my side.
It's a weakness he can twist and manipulate, and I hate that because it leaves me vulnerable.
But I won't lie to him about how I feel.
If he's got even a bit of hesitation about keeping me alive, I have to lean heavily on that sense of humanity I know dwells inside him.
He remembers what it's like to be a child left at Christmas with a broken heart, and playing to his sympathy, if it's the only tool left in my arsenal, might be what keeps me alive.
"Let's get back to work," I tell him because the intensity is getting way too high in this room. I turn, grabbing the sandwich, and take a bite. I will finish this work to the best of my ability, but I'm starting to lose steam.
If he's telling me the truth, then I have a reason to hope that when this is all over, I'll be able to go see my family.
If he's not, there's nothing in the world that can make my heart whole again.