I've learned well enough by now that something is sparking between us. But I'm not stupid enough to think Rafe won't actually go through with the plan to harm my sister if I step out of line. I'd be an idiot to trust him, and I'm not that foolish.
A sandwich sits on the corner of the desk, wrapped in deli paper, and I unwrap it while pulling up the August financials. It's a gourmet turkey wrap, exactly the kind of thing Rafe would order for me because he takes the time to study everything I do and like. I've never been sure what to think of that.
Maybe he's manipulating me, but then why would he say what he said to me in his kitchen a few days ago if he didn't mean it? Do men say things they don't mean in the middle of sex just to push a woman's buttons?
I take a bite and chew mechanically, my eyes scanning the rows of data on the screen. I've been rebuilding these records for weeks now, piecing together the banker's fractured system, filling in the gaps Marco left when he died. I'm halfway through August, and the work is tedious, repetitive, mind-numbing. But I'm good at it. I've always been good at finding patterns, spotting inconsistencies, making numbers align. It's one of the reasons I went into this field of work.
Though I'd prefer to help with loan analysis, not this forensic crap. Rafe just managed to weasel me into a grey area that isn't absolute torture. I could probably enjoy doing this for a living if the businesses were legit and not smoke screens for criminal acts. But my keen intellect can pick up a foul stench miles away.
That's why I notice the anomaly immediately.
I stop chewing and lean closer to the screen, narrowing my eyes at a series of transfers, all dated within the same week, all routed through a shell account I haven't seen before. The amounts are significant—fifty thousand here, seventy-five thousand there—but they're structured to avoid triggering automated alerts. Small enough to slip under the radar. Large enough to add up quickly over time.
I click on the first transaction and pull up the details. The recipient account is registered to a consulting firm based in Albany. I run a search on the firm's name and find a website with generic stock photos and vague descriptions of "government relations services."
A front. Obviously.
So I dig deeper, cross-referencing the account numbers with other entries in the ledger, and the pattern becomes clear. These aren't payments for services. They're bribes.
My stomach tightens.
I pull up the next transaction and find another consulting firm, this one based in Buffalo, with the exact same setup and structure as the last. I keep scrolling, and with every new entry the picture grows sharper and more damning.
The recipients are prominent New York politicians, high-ranking law-enforcement officials, and even state and federal judges—names that appear regularly in the news and carry real authority. Each of them receives steady six-figure payments funneled through layers of shell accounts and phantom businesses. Yet nowhere in the ledger, the attached folders, or the entire drive is there a single invoice, contract, receipt, or any scrap of evidence that legitimate services were ever provided.There are only clean, recurring deposits that purchase silence, favors, and deliberate blindness to everything Rafe does.
I sit back in the chair with my heart pounding. This is bigger than money laundering or illegal drugs or weapons shipments. This is corruption at the highest levels, a network of complicity that reaches into the state government and beyond.
And I'm sitting here, staring at all of it.
My gaze drifts toward the door. Feodor's outside standing guard, but he's not watching me through the glass. I can see the back of his head, and his attention is focused on his damn cell phone. He has no clue what I'm looking at and I don't even know if I'm supposed to be looking at this.
None of this is in my wheelhouse and nothing I see here is part of the orders Rafe gave me. This stuff isn't in the ledgers. I'm just supposed to be comparing Lombardi's handwritten notations to the company statements and I know Rafe's not stupid enough to let me see all this shit openly.
But this is really fucked up stuff. He might stake some ridiculous claim to me, but his boss has no problem calling me nothing but an asset. If he knows that I've discovered this information, he'll flip the fuck out. I'll be dead before dawn.
I open the top desk drawer slowly, careful not to make noise, and pull out a small flash drive. My hands are shaking as I plug it into the laptop and start copying files. The progress bar crawls across the screen, agonizingly slowly, and I keep glancing at the door, waiting for Feodor to turn around or Rafe to walk in and catch me.
This is sketchy shit. Really bad news for them and for every one of these politicians too. And it just might be my ticket to actualfreedom when this is all over with. I have no clue what Rafe has planned for me. For now I seem to be his star analyst or something, and of course, his sex pet. But when he's done with me, I'm not sure his desire to bend me over a table and pull my hair will make his boss keep me around.
This information is my backup plan. I could turn state's evidence and get real protection from the US Marshals.
The download completes, and I eject the drive, shoving it into my shoe. Walking around on something biting into my sole will suck, but not as much as losing my life or freedom over something that I should never have been involved in. Those idiots took me right off the street and now I'm basically one of them. If the Feds find out I've been hacking things like banks and burying evidence, I'll go to prison as fast as Rafe and his boss.
This drive can protect me from that.
I close the drawer and pull up the wrap again, forcing myself to take another bite even though my appetite's gone. My mind's racing now, spinning through possibilities and feeling desperate and cagey.
Rafe may have softened toward me and let his guard down after what happened between us, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm a liability. Eventually, he'll decide I know too much. Or maybe it'll be his boss who will decide I'm not worth the risk.
And when that happens, I need to be ready.
I'm halfway through another entry when I hear voices in the outer office. They’re muffled at first, but they're growing louder. One of the voices is very distinct and I'd know it like I know my father's voice. It's Rafe and he sounds very tense. The other voiceI believe is his uncle, Sal. I'd bet my life on it. I remember the dirty rumble of his deep tone and it makes me feel sick to my stomach.
"We need to lean on our friendlies," Sal says. "If the girl can't fabricate the records in time, we'll need political cover. Call in favors and make sure the right people are looking the other way."
"I'm handling it," Rafe replies, but I don't like the way he says it. He sounds impatient and hesitant.
"That woman has every reason to betray you, Raphaelos." He draws the name out in a thick slur that sounds like a treat. "She'll cut you the instant you turn your back."
