She paused at the door, her sharp eyes assessing me over her reading glasses. “You look like you’re about to do something you’ll regret.”
“Possibly.”
“Is she worth it?”
The question caught me off guard. Rita had been with me for ten years, followed me from Scotland without complaint, and never once commented on my personal life.
“Yes,” I said simply.
She nodded once, satisfied. “Then don’t second-guess yourself. Regret’s a waste of time.”
The Cavalier occupied the top floor of a Financial District building, all dark wood and expensive discretion.
Callum was already there, sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall—habit, no doubt. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Bond film—tailored suit, silver cufflinks catching the light, and an air of relaxed danger that made the waitstaff nervous.
“Patrick.” He stood, pulling me into a brief embrace. “You look like California’s treating you well. Or possibly killing you. Hard to tell.”
“Bit of both.” I settled into the chair across from him.
A waiter appeared immediately, almost bowing. “Mr. MacKenzie. The usual?”
“Macallan 25,” Callum said smoothly. “Two glasses. Neat.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Starting early?”
“Celebratory drink for a family reunion.” He grinned, a wolfish expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Besides, I’m still on Zurich time. It’s practically bedtime.”
When the waiter left, Callum leaned back, studying me. “So. Tell me about her.”
I did. All of it. Marco’s death, Arthur’s takeover attempt, the connection I’d felt with Theresa from that first meeting. The Scottish partnership I’d arranged, Arthur’s sabotage of the CFIUS filing, the board meeting in eight days.
Callum listened without interrupting, sipping his whisky like it was water. When I finished, he set down his glass.
“Arthur Vance. CFO for eight months, hired by the board after Marco Carideo died.” He said it like he was reading from a file in his head. “Harvard MBA, previous positions at two Fortune 500 companies. Clean record, respected in his field. Boring.”
“You already know about him.”
“I ran a quick check while you were driving over. Surface level.” He shrugged. “But the sabotage you’re describing—including old military research in a CFIUS filing? That’s not just ambitious. That’s devious. I like him already.”
“He’s trying to destroy her life.”
“Which means he has something to gain. Follow the money, Patrick. It always leads to the rot.”
He pulled out a slim leather notebook and a gold fountain pen. “Give me everything you have. Arthur’s background, CarideoTech’s corporate structure, timeline of events. Home address, usual haunts, known associates.”
I handed him a folded paper I’d prepared that morning.
He scanned it, nodding. “Thorough. You’ve been thinking about this.”
“Since yesterday.”
“The Scottish partner—Duncan MacLeod. Old family?”
“Different MacLeods. But yes, old money. His daughter has Type 1 diabetes. This isn’t just business for him.”
“Personal stakes. Those are always the most interesting leverage points.” He pocketed the paper. “I’ll make some calls. I have a friend at Treasury who owes me for a favor in Brussels. Another at State who enjoys gossip. Give me seventy-two hours. But I should warn you. Corporate intelligence, leaked documents, information that can’t be used in court... it gets messy. Are you ready to get your hands dirty, cousin?”
“Theresa’s already drowning in mess. Arthur made sure of that.” I leaned forward. “I’m not asking for permission, Callum. I’m asking for ammunition.”
