“Sir, the reports—” Marcus starts.
“Can wait.” Remy’s breath fans across my neck.
My body betrays me, leaning back slightly. His expensive suit brushes against my bare legs and memories of last night flash hot and vivid through my mind. Before I can steady myself, he spins me around.
His kiss isn’t gentle. It’s possession, pure and calculated, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me. He tastes like coffee and control, and damn him, I respond. My hands fist in his lapels, torn between pulling him closer and shoving him away.
My mind screams to remember my purpose and my plans, but my body arches into him. He deepens the kiss, and I barely suppress a moan. This is what he wants—to show his power, to remind me I’m at his mercy. The worst part is how effectively it’s working.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with triumph. Without a word, he straightens his tie and strides out, leaving me breathless and unsteady against the counter. His footsteps echo across the marble floor, each step punctuating his victory with Marcus on his heels.
I force myself to meet Marcus’s knowing look, fighting the heat in my cheeks.
I stalk back to my room, coffee clutched like a lifeline, trying to scrub the sensation of Remy’s lips from my mind. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, marking his territory in front of Marcus like some alpha predator. My skin still tingles where he touched me, and I hate how my body responds to the memory.
Settling on the bed, I survey the cameras dotting my room like electronic eyes. The thought of being watched while I sleep, while I dress, while I… My jaw clenches. To hell with this.
“You want a show, Remy?” I mutter, surging up from the bed. “Here’s your entertainment.”
I grab my desk chair, dragging it across the floor with deliberate noise. The first camera comes down with a satisfyingcrack as I rip it from the wall. Then another. And another. Each one feels like a small victory, a middle finger to his control.
“Enjoy the view now, you controlling ass.”
My hands shake slightly as I lower myself back onto the bed, but not from fear. Adrenaline courses through me, mixed with fierce satisfaction. Let him come storming in. Let him try to explain why I shouldn’t have privacy in my own damn bedroom.
The laptop balanced on my knees, I begin my careful dance. My fingers move with practiced casualness across the keys, each stroke precise despite appearing random. The hidden partition inside the memory card I’d prepared activates silently—my own little secret in plain sight. The screen splits, maintaining the facade of mundane work emails while granting me access to what really matters.
My pulse quickens as I reach for Roberto’s USB. Everything rides on what’s contained here, keeping this moment hidden from Remy’s watchful eyes. The security protocols I’d established begin their quiet work, routing through VPNs, scrambling my digital footprint into white noise so they don’t have a clue of what’s on my screen.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper, watching the encryption processes run. Every second feels like an eternity, each small progress bar a testament to my nerves.
The coffee sits forgotten on the nightstand, growing cold as I work. But I can’t risk taking my attention away from the screen; I can’t risk missing a single detail that might compromise everything I’ve worked for. The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes me freeze, but they pass by.
The encrypted message from Roberto loads painfully slowly, each second stretching my nerves thinner. His familiar coding style appears line by line:
“E—Witness secured but scared. Former board member of Montoni Shipping. Claims direct knowledge of the operation.”
My hands tap lightly over the keys. A board member. Finally, someone from the inside willing to talk. The next segment loads:
“He knows. He’s been watching the investigation closer than we thought. Sources say he’s cleared his schedule and canceled board meetings. He’s fixated on finding our witness.”
Bile rises in my throat. Ano, Ano Montoni. My father. The man who taught me to ride a bike, who read me bedtime stories, who built an empire on the broken backs of trafficked women. The same man who would do anything to keep his crimes hidden.
“He’s hired new people, E. Not just local muscle. Professional cleaners. Be careful who you trust. Even your old contacts might not be safe anymore.”
My gaze darts to the door. Remy. Did my father reach out to him? The timing of his help seems too convenient now. But if Ano had hired him, wouldn’t I already be in my father’s grasp?
The final segment appears:
“The shipping manifests match. Three vessels, twelve ports, hundreds of women. All connecting back to Montoni subsidiaries. Your father’s signature on every document. This goes deeper than we imagined. The witness claims Ano personally oversaw—”
A sound in the hallway makes me freeze. I quickly close the partition, heart hammering. The footsteps pass, but the sick feeling in my stomach remains.
I lean back, processing Roberto’s words. The investigation I’ve pursued for months, the trafficking ring I’ve tracked across continents—it all leads back to my father. Ano Montoni, Chicago’s respected businessman, philanthropist, and my own personal nightmare.
My throat constricts as I remember the women I’ve interviewed. Their haunted eyes, their broken spirits, their stories of abuse and exploitation. All while my father sat in his high-rise office, signing documents that sealed their fates.
I can’t tell Remy. No matter what’s happening between us, no matter how his touch affects me, he’s still a fixer. And Ano Montoni is exactly the kind of wealthy, powerful client Remy built his reputation protecting. Remy’s loyalty is easy to guess.
