17. Fifty Million #2
“No,” Faith says quietly. “That’s one hell of a name for buying access.”
Nobody asks what she means.
Access to refugee camps.
Access to medical records.
Transport.
Legal protection.
People with no one close enough to raise hell before the paperwork changes.
Mercy goes still across the table. I know she's thinking about Arizona, about how easily Meridian turned care into access.
Felicity looks up from her laptop. “And if they’re funding at this level, they'll have redundancy built in. Servers. Records. Staff. Routes. Probably entire replacement fronts ready to activate.”
Grayson’s voice carries from somewhere off-screen.
“Which means the trick isn’t just finding the current system. It’s finding the backup before they flip the switch.”
Victor nods.
“Exactly.”
“Is that something you can find, G?” I ask.
Grayson leans into frame, looking far too awake for a bloke who's probably been coding since yesterday.
“Find? Maybe. Hack without detonating every alarm they've wired into it? That's the fun part.”
Victor doesn't blink.
“Quiet first.”
“Obviously,” Grayson says. “I’m chaotic, not suicidal.”
I look back at the transfer.
This isn't crime hiding in the cracks anymore. It's crime with a budget. Budgets mean priorities.
Someone approved those numbers. Someone reviewed performance. Someone decided those women were worth the investment and kept signing off.
Jan asks the question quietly.
“So what do we do?”
Adrian lowers his eyes for a moment, as though deciding how much to say. When he looks back up, his expression is colder than I’ve ever seen it.
“I’ve been making calls since Tuscany,” he says. “Legacy Initiative isn’t a company. It isn’t even one organization. It’s a compact or consortium if you will. Old families, old money, private influence, and enough distance from the crimes that their fingerprints never touch the women they destroy.”
The room goes silent.
“I haven’t identified the Council Twelve,” Adrian continues. “Not yet. But I have found repeated references to seats. Not board positions. Seats. Inheritance language. Succession language. This isn’t simply funded.”
“It’s governed.”
“Then what do we do?” I ask.
Adrian holds my gaze through the screen.
“We keep going. One woman at a time. One front at a time. Until we reach the people sitting in those seats.”
“And when we do?” Jan asks.
Adrian doesn't hesitate.
“Then we make sure there’s nowhere left for them to sit.”
MacLeod’s Aegean, Santorini, Greece. 1430 hours
Mid-afternoon heat gathers against the suite windows, softening the edges of the room while the sea glitters far below.
The meeting's over. Dinner is still a while away.
I'm making the most of the time with my wife.
She looks at me and says, "Now seems like the perfect time to tell me what Jax meant when he said, We're not going to sink it this time?"
I clear my throat.
"Right."
Jan gives me the look.
"Victor ordered Crew to plant a charge on The Vengeance before we extracted Faith."
"He did what?"
"It delayed the pursuit."
She stares at me.
"Steve..."
"In fairness, none of us expected it to go down quite that enthusiastically."
"You sank the yacht."
"Technically... yes."
"Technically?"
"Marcus Webb was fished out of the water afterward, so it wasn't a total loss."
Jan studies me for a second, then shrugs. “They were all bastards. I heard the way they talked about the women they were trafficking, laughing like it was nothing. Maybe they deserved to get wet.”
She looks almost satisfied, and I thank my lucky stars I got out of that one so easily.
My attention stays on my wife as I ease her cotton shirt over her head.
My hands tremble when my eyes find the neat pink line along her right side, the healing graze that came far too close to taking her from me. The fear from the port still lives somewhere inside me, heavy and raw.
I lower myself onto my knees in front of her, easing her leggings and underwear down until she stands naked in the warm Greek sunlight. My thumb traces lightly beneath the healing mark.
“I was so fucking scared when you were hit, Jan. I thought I'd lost you.”
She cups my jaw, her fingers warm against my skin.
“I know, Steve. I know. But I’m right here.”
I bend and press my lips beside the healing wound, breathing her in. I promise every god I don't believe in that I'll keep her safe.
Then she kisses me.
And for a little while, I believe in all of them.
I guide her back onto the edge of the mattress, wanting her to feel every ounce of what I can't seem to put into words. Gratitude. Relief. Worship. The desperate certainty that she's alive beneath my hands.
I ease her thighs apart and drape her legs over my shoulders. A soft gasp escapes her as I kiss her stomach, my breath lifting goosebumps across her skin. My mouth trails lower, over the curve of her hip, until I settle between her thighs.
“Steve,” she whispers, fingers threading into my hair.
I answer by parting her with my thumbs and dragging my tongue slowly across her clit.
Her whole body shivers.
I taste her before focusing more deliberately, long slow strokes giving way to quicker flicks that make her breathing catch. She rocks helplessly against my mouth.
I slide two fingers inside her, pushing them deep as my tongue keeps working over her swollen clit.
Her thighs begin trembling around my shoulders.
“Steve... oh God... I'm close...”
I don't stop.
I suck her harder, my fingers pumping steadily, driving her closer until her body finally gives in.
She cries out my name.
Her back arches off the bed as her orgasm crashes through her in wave after wave. I stay with her through every shudder, every trembling breath, every soft cry until the last tremor slowly fades beneath my mouth.
Only then do I stand.
I strip the rest of my clothes away and settle over her, my aching cock brushing against the wet warmth between her thighs.
Her eyes find mine, dark and heavy with desire as she reaches for me.
I guide myself inside her slowly.
Every inch feels like coming home.
We both groan as I bury myself completely inside her.
I begin to move.
Deep.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Each thrust carries the same silent promise I'd made against her skin moments earlier.
You're here.
You're alive.
I've got you.
She wraps her legs around my hips, drawing me deeper, meeting every stroke with one of her own. My head rests near hers while our bodies move together, slow at first, then harder, need steadily overtaking restraint.
The rhythm builds naturally, becoming heavier, rougher, desperate without ever losing the tenderness beneath it. My hands slide under her, holding her close while every thrust reminds me how close I'd come to losing this.
To losing her.
“Steve...” she breathes.
I kiss her hard.
“I know, darls.”
The pressure coils tighter between us until neither of us can hold back any longer.
With one final, deep thrust, we come apart together shattering in pleasure.
She cries out as her orgasm tears through her, and I bury myself as deeply as I can, groaning against her mouth while release shudders through me in long, powerful pulses.
For a few seconds neither of us moves.
We're both breathing too hard.
Feeling too much.
Eventually I roll carefully onto my back, bringing her with me so she lies sprawled across my chest. I brush damp blonde hair away from her face, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, then finally her lips.
“You okay, Mrs. Hollands?” I murmur.
She smiles, soft and wonderfully alive.
“Yes, I'm fine, Mr. Hollands.”
Her chin settles against my chest while her thumb traces lazy circles over my collarbone. Gradually our breathing slows together.
Outside, Santorini shines beneath a perfect Greek sky, and for once, I let myself stay exactly where I am.