35. Rico #2
I scan deeper, eye twitching. If they exploited a vulnerability, it means I left one open. I don’t leave doors unlocked. I don’t make mistakes. Except, apparently, for saying I do and signing up for my wife’s nightly "needs."
All software patches are up-to-date, every security measure triple-checked, because I oversee biweekly updates on every client system. My systems are airtight.
Except for the fact some genius just strutted through my firewall like it had a welcome mat.
Finally, I see it. A directory change that shouldn’t exist. Malicious code slipped in under the guise of — fuck me — a patch update.
My patch update. They piggybacked on my security measure to inject their backdoor access.
That’s not just hacking. That’s art. Twisted, malicious art painted with my brush.
“He used our patch.” I gesture to the logs glaring back at me, every corrupted line a middle finger from my anonymous adversary.
Evander leans over my shoulder, those signature Harrington blue eyes narrowing as he scans.
The Harringtons all look like modern-day Targaryens — platinum hair, eerie blue eyes.
Unfortunately, no dragons. Just absurd amounts of wealth and superiority complexes.
“Well, that’s impressive,” Cruz chimes in, running a hand through his artfully disheveled hair. It’s the tousled look that probably requires a personal stylist and $100 pomade. “But they’d have to know you update patches twice a week.”
My jaw clenches hard enough to trigger a migraine. There are only a few ways they could figure that out. Monitoring update patterns is the most likely.
Flipping the laptop back toward me, I isolate the compromised systems. It’s pointless, really. The bastard’s long gone. Didn’t steal data. Didn’t plant ransomware. Just waltzed in, poked around, and left breadcrumbs to show me where I screwed up.
Petty. Brilliant. Asshole.
“How long to quarantine and repair?” Evander asks, his perfectly waxed eyebrow arching. Of course he waxes. No man’s arches are that precise without professional intervention.
“Give me a day.” I don’t look up. If I work through the night, I can have it done by morning. But then it hits me. Dinner.
I groan. Loudly, apparently, because the room goes silent.
“What?” Dom, the nosy brother he is, asks. He’s kicked back in his chair, arms crossed, watching me like I’m a live feed of his favorite reality show. I hate him.
“Nothing.” I disconnect from another compromised system, ignoring their collective curiosity.
Cruz, thankfully, has backed off, so he doesn’t see how deep this breach really went. Harrington’s databases are lit up like a Christmas tree and our merger dude bros over there don’t need to see that oopsie.
“I’ll need until morning…” I pause, because the next words physically pain me. “Dinner. Seven o’clock. Wife.”
There it is. My balls, officially on display and ripe for the taking.
Alex and Dom exchange shit-eating grins, and I briefly contemplate introducing their faces to the conference table. Swallowing bile would be less nauseating than enduring their looks.
Evander leans forward, blue eyes sparkling more than the obscene amount of fairy dust sprinkled at my niece's birthday. “Heard you got married. Thought it was a joke.”
I glare at him. “You were at the wedding.”
“My point.”
“It’s arranged.” In our world, that’s not unusual. Hell, his brother married for hotel acquisitions, so he gets it. Why didn't I get a hotel chain as my consolation?
“But you leave work to make it home for dinner?” Evander's grin widens, and whatever thin sliver of respect I had for him slides straight into the ninth circle of hell.
“We have an agreement.”
“That you actually follow?” Dom’s eyebrow is loaded with implication. Sienna, his big-mouthed wife, clearly blabbed. Which means my wife is running her mouth to my sisters, who funnel every word straight to their husbands like gossip-fueled carrier pigeons.
I make a mental note to remind Allie that sharing private details with the Bennetti women is like broadcasting on prime-time television. This family doesn’t just meddle; they mobilize. Feed them a crumb, and they’ll build an empire of interference.
After I isolate the compromised systems, the tension in my chest loosens. Barely. It’s like duct-taping a cracked dam—functional, but ugly as hell and bound to fail if I don’t reinforce it.
I glance at Dom, who’s watching me like a lion eyeing a limping gazelle. “Yes, we follow the contract.” Bold-faced, unapologetic lies.
“I heard there were…alterations.” His voice drips with amusement, and my molars grind. I’d pay good money to feel my knuckles make alterations to his face right now.
I flex my fingers, noting the lack of bruises. When was the last time I hit something that wasn’t my wife’s G-spot?
Marco’s been waiting for me at the gym, and I’ve been skipping out like a whipped husband who traded boxing gloves for oven mitts. I mentally scroll through my calendar for a free day to spar before this marital vortex sucks me into the abyss entirely.
“Minor changes. Nothing more.”
Dom seems to not care we have an audience, because that mouth of his keeps moving. “You. Rico Bennetti. The man who treats protocol like scripture altered a written contract?” His glee is nauseating, and I suppress the urge to gag.
“You realize,” Jaxon drawls from his corner, not even pretending to hide his entertainment, “that a verbal agreement makes up an official amendment? Enforceable, if challenged.”
Of course, I know that. I researched every loophole, every shred of legal jargon that could undo the damage of my temporary lapse in judgment.
How the hell do I tell my wife we’re reverting to the original terms after I’ve indulged myself, night after night, trying to screw her out of my system?
More importantly, what do I do when I have zero interest in changing it back?
My phone pings on the table by my laptop.
I know exactly who it is, but I check anyway.
Because apparently, I’ve developed a masochistic need to see her name light up my screen.
I used to go hours without peeking at my phone—hell, I kept it on silent.
Now? I’m practically Pavlov’s dog, salivating at every notification.
Allie: Dinner’s going to be delicious tonight! Been working on this recipe for weeks. See you at seven. Can you grab a bottle of Merlot on your way home?
I stare at the text, dissecting every word like its enemy code. Too many issues to count.
First, the dinner comment. As if she didn’t perfect cooking for me the moment she realized food was my weakness. The woman’s been running a one-woman psychological warfare campaign, using butter and garlic weapons.
Second, the wine. She’s been home all day and could’ve bought it herself. This isn’t about convenience; it’s about pushing me to do things. Small, seemingly innocuous tasks designed to weave me deeper into the fabric of domesticity. Death by a thousand errands.
“Is that…?” Alex’s voice cuts in, but I tune him out, suspecting he’s droning about the Evander meeting.
He and Cruz will talk damage control, PR spin with Jaxon, and how to ensure our other clients—especially one's like the Harringtons, who probably use hundred-dollar bills as tissues—never hear a whisper of this breach.
But then Dom chuckles. “I think it is. How long until he notices?”
My head snaps up. They’re all staring at me. Even Jaxon, who usually operates on a strict diet of indifference, looks mildly entertained. The man could squeeze blood from a rock if it meant winning a case, and apparently, my personal life now qualifies as premium entertainment.
Shoving my laptop shut, I meet Dom’s gaze, voice flat. “Speak.”
Leaning back in my chair, I cross my arms over my light gray sweater, the soft cashmere doing nothing to buffer the irritation prickling under my skin.
Jeans. Clean shoes. No tie. Because unlike my brothers, the Locke clones, and Evander fucking Harrington—all decked out in custom-tailored suits—I have no intention of pretending I give a damn about appearances.