Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Lochlan
Senator Keith Banks is like every other public servant who somehow manages to make ten times his official salary.
It’s more than enough to afford the swanky Manhattan penthouse overlooking Central Park.
The second he opens the door to find me on his doorstep, he almost shits bricks. He tries to push me away and slam the door in my face.
But I’m ready for him, shoving him back and shouldering my way inside. The two henchmen I’ve brought with me quickly follow.
“Are you insane?!” he demands. His eyes dart left and right down the hall outside, making sure nobody’s watching. “What the hell are you doing here? How dare you come to my private residence? Do you have any idea what would happen if someone saw you?”
“Then I suggest you close the door before your neighbors get curious. Masked men wandering around in a building this nice? And during daylight hours? It’s sure to get people talking.”
He grimaces, though promptly listens, letting the door snap shut. But not before he checks the hall two more times like a paranoid rat.
I use the few seconds he does to admire the inside of the senator’s abode—it’s as swanky as it seemed in the old photos on the real estate site back when it was up for sale.
It’s a high-rise with marble finishes and big windows. Keith’s hung up several pieces of the most pretentious and expensive art he could get his greedy politician fingers on, and he’s even put a grand piano far off in the corner, right in view of the largest window in the living room.
While my family’s wealth is nothing to sneeze at, we’ve never been the fancy type. Callahan House is about legacy, not luxury, and Dad was always more of a proponent of vintage than one to indulge in the modern perks available.
It seems the Banks family is the opposite. They’re all about sleek, cutting edge grandeur, flaunting it at every chance.
No wonder Chantal is the way she is; she’s been pampered her whole life.
“We had an agreement,” the senator growls. He trails after me as I stroll into his living room and make myself comfortable on his large, sprawling sectional. “You were supposed to contact me through the unlisted number I provided. Not show up at my residence like some kind of—”
“Criminal?” I finish for him, grinning under my mask. “That’s what I am, Senator. Did you forget?”
His eyes flash with loathing, the rest of his features tight. “I am a sitting member of Congress. I am known nationally. I’ve told you I can’t afford to have you photographed anywhere near me.”
“That’s not my problem. But I’ll tell you what is: Where’s my money?”
“I told you I need more time,” he answers. “Liquidating assets of this magnitude isn’t something that happens overnight. There are legal considerations, tax implications—”
“I’ve given you two extensions already. Did you forget that?”
He’s stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open like a fish.
I lean forward on the sectional, resting an elbow on my knee.
“You want to know what I’ve been doing while you’ve been stalling?
I got bored, so I started doing some digging.
Turns out, I found some interesting stuff.
Did you know that since your daughter went missing, your campaign donations have increased by forty-three percent? ”
My question is met with such loud silence that the Manhattan traffic dozens of stories below becomes the only noise in the entire penthouse.
The senator finally remembers to close his mouth, though his nostrils flare and his eyes remain wide. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess he’s experiencing rigor mortis, he’s gone so damn stiff.
“As it goes, a grieving father makes for great PR,” I continue casually.
I rise from the sectional and start toward him.
“All those press conferences with the tears and the trembling voice? Definitely wins over the hearts of thousands. Sympathy donations pouring in from across the country. You’ve raised more money in the past few weeks than you did your entire previous campaign for re-election, right? ”
“That’s not—I haven’t—I wouldn’t—” he sputters, scrambling for a defense. “Those… those donations are for the search efforts. For bringing Chantal home.”
“Yeah, figured you’d say that,” I reply, sliding my hands into my pants pockets. “Which is why it’s even more curious you’ve recently put a deposit down for some renovations at your beach house in the Hamptons. Coincidence, Senator?”
His nostrils flare some more, his thick mustache hardly concealing how he rolls his lips together.
He’s pissed. So fucking angry, yet he knows how powerless he is at the moment.
“Let’s keep it real, alright?” I ask. “You never had any intention of paying up, did you? You’ve been stalling because your daughter’s disappearance is the best thing that’s ever happened to your political career.”
“That’s not true!” he exclaims in outrage. “How dare you even make such an accusation? I want her back. Of… of course I want her back.”
“Just not enough to actually pay for her.”
“I’ve told you, I need more time—”
“And I’ve told you, time’s up.” I close the last few feet between us, getting right in his face. I’m taller than him by almost a full human head, though he stands his ground. “I’m done waiting. I’ve made the stipulations clear, and you haven’t met the deadline.”
“What does that mean? What are you going to do?”
“Your daughter will be sold off on the black market. That’s what.”
Now he staggers backward, his hand flying out to steady himself on a marble statue nearby. “You… you can’t do that! She’s my daughter. She’s—”
“She’s merchandise. Since you’re clearly not interested in buying her back, I’ll find someone who will.”
“I’ll pay!” he says. “Just give me another week or two and I’ll—”
“There’s no more time to waste. You’ve had every opportunity to come up with the cash, and instead you’ve been profiting on her disappearance.
You’ve made your priorities clear.” I turn and head for the door, my men falling into step behind me.
“Enjoy your campaign donations, Senator. They’re the only thing you’ll have left of her. ”
“Wait!” He rushes after me, throwing himself in my direct path. “You don’t want to do this. This is a federal investigation. The FBI is involved, and any day now they’ll—”
“Get the fuck out of my way,” I hiss, and he stumbles to obey. I stride forward, wrenching open the front door. “You’ll never see your daughter again. Whatever happens to her from this point forward is on you. You had a chance to save her, and you chose not to.”
I’m normally pretty damn productive. My revenge plan has kept me hyper-focused even through moments of exhaustion and injury (like when I was shanked).
But after dropping the bomb I did on Senator Banks, I return to the estate and find it difficult to work.
There’s plenty to do—the Callahan accounts are still in chaos from Akio’s hacking, I’ve got more dead-end clues to plant regarding Chantal’s whereabouts, and the Ferreras are expecting another round of intel drops by the end of the week.
My revenge plan is developing exactly as it should, the pieces falling into place like a masterful puzzle.
So why the fuck can’t I focus?
Grandpa Finn’s leather chair creaks as I recline in it and scroll through various surveillance feeds on my laptop. Though I haven’t consciously acknowledged what I’m searching for, deep down I know.
I’m specifically seeking her out.
I’m scouring the entire estate for her, trying to locate where she is. It’s two p.m., which normally means she’d be out in the garden with Sorcha, but it seems they’ve taken a break from their weeding.
Camera twelve is where I finally locate her. She’s standing in the kitchen with Sorcha as the two sip what looks like lemonade and nibble on sandwiches.
I scowl at my laptop screen.
I did agree to feeding her better food. But I was also so fucking hard and turned on I would’ve agreed to release her if she asked me the right way.
How could I not when I was balls deep inside her and she kept fighting back every damn time I restrained her?
Even as I pinned her down on the couch, she threw that fat fucking ass back like a pro and took my cock as if enraptured in pleasure. She was enjoying it just as much as I was.
…which was fucking mind blowing in and of itself.
After two decades of banging a frigid wife who was a starfish in bed, the concept of a woman being passionate about sex feels off.
She orgasmed. She cried and screamed and clawed at me.
I still have the image of her big tits bouncing and her face screwed up in pleasure as she came. It makes my cock hard again just thinking about it.
So making some concessions like letting the girl bathe and have better food made sense at the time.
It seemed like more than a fair trade-off for access to her juicy little cunt.
I stare at the screen so long I should be embarrassed.
Chantal’s round face breaks into laughter as she and Sorcha share in a joke. Her whole face lights up, her long braids slipping over her shoulder.
My finger hovers over the mouse, urging myself to click off the feed. Yet I can’t bring myself to do it as I stare at the girl and realize I’m damn near transfixed.
I’m… becoming obsessed.
It’s not just the sex or her plump, curvy body. It’s everything about her.
How she seems to shine bright no matter what I do to her, and how she’s managed to even bring timid and meek Sorcha out of her shell. How one of her requests while negotiating was something as simple as getting to see the O’Keeffe painting each day.
Her mouth is dangerous; it’d get her killed if she were anybody else talking to me like that.
But somehow it works for her. It’s borderline fucking charming, and I don’t even understand why.
Cara never talked to me like that. My ex-wife was a mouse—quiet, obedient, never expressing a single genuine opinion in the entire twenty years we were married.
I used to think that’s what I wanted. A woman who stayed in her lane and didn’t cause problems.