Chapter 39 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Monday evening
The silence after the accusation is heavy enough to crush bone. Which, with the crusher parked twenty feet away, might actually
be a possibility.
Ramirez stares at us, and I force myself not to look at Ben. I can’t. If I meet his eyes, I might lose whatever clarity I
need to hold on to. Mr. Edmond reminded me last night how easy it is to be swayed by hopes and dreams and just how dangerous
it is to give trust away.
“What is the meaning of this, Lorenzo?” Mr. Edmond asks, and I hear the slight tremor in his voice. Sebastian watches his
father. He heard it too.
After last night’s conversation with Mr. Edmond, things shifted. I can’t help but see Sebastian differently. Not as the arrogant,
aloof son of a wealthy developer, but as someone who, like my mom, trusted the wrong people. Who didn’t see the trap until
it was already closed.
My mom didn’t trust herself to handle the settlement after my dad died—didn’t think she was stable enough, smart enough, strong enough to take care of me.
Sebastian thought ambition was enough to keep him in control of the empire he was trying to build to prove he was capable of living outside of his father’s shadow.
Both trusted someone who had the right credentials, the right words, the right promises. But it was all a lie.
Lies are what have led all of us here.
Ramirez isn’t here to build something. He’s here to tear someone down.
“I agreed to a meeting to finalize the auction terms—not a field trip,” Edmond says, offering a tight smile. “What exactly
are we doing here, Lorenzo?”
Ramirez paces slowly, his boots crunching over gravel, hands folded behind his back like a teacher about to assign someone
detention. Except instead of spending hours bored to death in a room, the punishment here involves bullets.
“You know,” he says, pausing in front of Mr. Edmond, “when I brought you into this deal, I expected a certain level of . . .
loyalty.”
Mr. Edmond shifts beside me, but he does not cower. “Your version of an invitation reads much more like extortion.”
Ramirez smiles. Callous. Cruel. He looks at Sebastian. “Your son wanted investors. I gave him an opportunity—”
“You tricked him!” Mr. Edmond growls. “You made him complicit to your crimes.”
Rook starts for him, but Ramirez holds up a hand. “I’ve got this, James.”
An audible ding pulls my attention to the laptop. Rook’s focus returns to it. He taps the keyboard and smiles, causing something in my gut
to twist.
“My crimes?” Ramirez replies simply. “One shouldn’t throw stones.” His cold gaze swings to me. “Right, Ms. Langford?”
My heart drops into my stomach. Next to me, Sebastian shifts, but a sharp glance from Ramirez keeps him still.
A sudden noise breaks the tension—a low groan from the far side of the construction site. I glance over and spot Sammy Pawson,
hunched near a cement mixer, hand braced on his knee.
Rook notices too. “You good?” he calls.
Pawson waves him off, but his face is pale, and he’s sweating like it’s a hundred degrees hotter than it is. He curses under his breath. “I need to . . . go.”
Without waiting for permission, he staggers toward the path leading down from the site, one hand pressed to his stomach. Nobody
follows.
Rook watches him go, then mutters, “I told him he eats too much crap.”
“Shouldn’t we be focusing on the auction?” Ben asks, his voice calm, strong. The sound of it nearly undoes me.
Ramirez doesn’t look at him right away. He takes his time, eyes lingering on me a second too long before turning back to the
laptop. Walking over, he twists it so that we can all see the lines of data flicker and shift on the screen. “The auction
is already underway.”
My pulse races. The auction has started? No. That’s not how this was supposed to unfold. Not yet. Ben glances toward the laptop,
too, the smallest flicker of alarm breaking through his mask. That wasn’t part of the script.
“So you see,” Mr. Ramirez continues and turns, his gaze landing back on me, “we can now focus on what’s in front of us.”
I stiffen.
“You,” he says with a thin smile. “I almost didn’t notice. Quiet. Polite. Efficient. The kind of person no one watches too
closely.” He takes a step toward me. “But it’s always the ones we least expect.”
I say nothing. I don’t trust my voice not to shake.
“Lorenzo, leave her alone.” Mr. Edmond steps to my side. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”
It should make me feel safe. But there’s only one person here I’ve ever wanted to trust—and naturally, he comes with alibis and a badge.
Ramirez waves him off. “Don’t insult me, Earl. I’ve known from the beginning that you’d try to protect your son. I even respected
it at first. But that’s not why we’re here.” His gaze pierces me. “I expect betrayal from the loud ones. The obvious threats.
But you? You were a surprise.”
Edmond turns to me, confused. “What’s he talking about, Cybil?”
Ramirez doesn’t wait. “Italy. You were in my office, going through my paperwork. Your mishap in the village. Maybe it was an innocent accident or maybe you were somewhere you weren’t supposed to be.
The roads and traffic can be so dangerous.
But then you decided to leave dinner early. And search my office.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“And let’s not forget the cocktail party.” His eyes narrow. “It was another surprise to see you talking with a member of the
Russian military. Tell me, do you and Milosh Kamarov have a lot in common?”
I keep my eyes on him, my heartbeat loud enough to be its own soundtrack. But I don’t answer. I can’t. Because I don’t know
which version of the lie he’ll kill me for first.
Ramirez waits a beat and then sighs. He pulls out a gun with the kind of nonchalance that tells me he’s used it before. “That’s
disappointing.”
Nobody moves. The only sound is coming from the clicking of Rook at the laptop as he monitors the bids from criminals ready
to buy a war weapon.
The barrel of the gun tilts toward me and I can barely swallow over the tightness in my throat. But I’m not going to let my
fear keep me silent. I’m not going to be the victim of anyone else’s betrayal.
“You’re not wrong,” I say. Cool. Or as cool as someone who has a gun pointed at them by a man who thinks selling a mineral
to warlords is totally awesome. “Sometimes it’s an unassuming pebble in your shoe that slows your step. A single spark that
brings down the house. Or the tiniest tremble in the ocean that becomes a tsunami.”
Ramirez pauses, clearly caught off guard.
I step forward, slow and deliberate. “But you’re aiming at the wrong traitor.”
All eyes snap to me. Including Ben’s.
And I let my gaze slide to him like I’ve connected every last dot. Like I’ve been played—and now I’m done.
“I was trying to dig for information because I knew something was off,” I say, pitching my voice low. Bitter. “He was too perfect. Too polished. The kind of man who knows exactly what to say to make you feel like you’re the only one in the room—until you realize he’s been lying the whole time.”
Ben’s brows pinch. “Cybil—”
“It’s true,” I say, cutting off him off. “I was in your office in Italy. In the village I was following him to find out who
he was meeting with, and at the cocktail party I spoke to Milosh Kamarov to find out why Craig Miller was meeting with Olek
Radin.”
Mr. Edmond reaches into his pocket, causing Ramirez to swing the gun his direction. He holds up a hand while the other pulls
out a folded printout from his coat and tosses it on the table next to the laptop. The photo is grainy, time-stamped, but
clear enough.
Craig Miller—Ben—sitting across from Olek Radin.
“Olek Radin is a tech broker tied to dark-net financial platforms,” Mr. Edmond explains. “He’s got a knack for accessing and
rerouting digital funds, making money in shell corporations disappear.”
Ramirez frowns and picks up the photo for closer inspection.
“That man”—Mr. Edmond points at the photo—“is talking to the one person standing here with direct access to your crypto wallet.
The person who’s been betraying you the whole time.”
Ben looks between us, shock playing out on his features. “This is insane. You’re being fed lies—”
“Then why were you there?” I ask, eyes hard, voice low. “Why did you ask me to meet you in Mr. Ramirez’s office in Italy?
You never showed up—because you wanted me to take the fall. You wanted a distraction. You set me up so Mr. Ramirez would watch
me—while you slipped out the back with everything.”
A muscle in Ben’s jaw twitches. Just once. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t defend himself.
But his eyes narrow just enough.
“Show me my accounts,” Ramirez barks at Ben, lowering the gun just slightly.
“I assure you all of your accounts are in order,” Ben says, his hands rising defensively.
“I don’t want your assurance,” Ramirez seethes. “I want you to pull up my accounts.”
Ben hesitates, his gaze flicking to the laptop, then to Ramirez . . . and finally to me. The fear on his face looks real—too
real. For a split second, doubt slips in. Was this a mistake? He takes slow steps toward the laptop. Rook backs away and gives
him access.
With several keystrokes, Ben logs in, fingers gliding over the keyboard with the kind of precision that comes from practice.
The loading bar inches across the screen—slowly.
Ramirez’s gaze sharpens. “Why is it taking so long?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.
Ben doesn’t flinch. “Encrypted server. Takes a second to sync across regions.”
Ramirez steps closer, eyes narrowing at the screen, then at Ben.
“A second’s up,” he growls. “If you’ve touched anything in those accounts—if what she says is true—”
Ben’s jaw flexes, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the screen. I’ve only seen him angry once before—when we were kids and his
friend crushed a butterfly just to see it break. He didn’t yell. Didn’t even raise his voice. Just stood there, still and
quiet, like fury was something he kept under lock and key.
He looks like that now.
His fingers still over the keyboard for half a second too long, like he’s weighing something. A pause that doesn’t go unnoticed.
Ramirez’s eyes narrow. “Problem?”
Ben clears his throat. “No,” he says firmly. “No problem. But you might find this interesting.” He turns the laptop toward
Ramirez, fingers gliding across the track pad to open the most recent transaction history. “There has been unauthorized activity
on one of your offshore accounts.” He points at the screen. “That transfer is marked two days ago. Not from me. It was authorized
using Sebastian Edmond’s credentials.”
The air goes still.
Ramirez shifts his gaze toward Sebastian.
He’s staring at the screen like it just slapped him. “I—I didn’t—That’s not—”
My breath snags—sharp and involuntary—as the accusation lands.
Ramirez takes a step forward. “You stole from me?”
Mr. Edmond spins on Sebastian. “Lies!”
Sebastian backs up. “No—this isn’t what it looks like. I would never—”
But it’s too late.
Sebastian lunges at Ben.