"He's in his office, but he's with a client?—"
I'm already moving past her desk, ignoring her protests. Richard Quinn's office is at the end of the hall, his name etched in gold letters on frosted glass.
I don't knock.
The door slams open with enough force to crack the glass, and Richard jumps up from behind his desk, papers scattering across the floor. He's exactly as I remember him—average height, graying hair, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. The kind of man you'd trust with your children's college fund.
The kind of man who's been stealing from my family.
"Dante," he says, his voice shaking. "What—why are you here?"
"You know why I'm here, Richard."
He glances past me to Viktor, who is still sporting two black eyes from the punch I delivered. He’s positioned himself at the door like the professional he is. No escape, no witnesses.
"I don't understand," Richard says, sinking back into his chair. "Is this about the quarterly reports? Because I submitted those last week?—"
"Five million dollars."
I watch his face, searching for any sign of guilt, any tell that would confirm what I already know. Instead, I see confusion. Genuine, bone-deep confusion that makes something cold twist in my gut.
"Five million—what?" Richard's voice cracks. "Dante, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." I move closer to his desk, my hands flat on the polished surface. "Don't insult my intelligence by playing dumb. The money, Richard. Where is it?"
"What money?" He's practically pleading now, his hands shaking as he reaches for his glasses. "I manage your accounts, yes, but I've never taken anything. Not so much as a penny. You have to believe me."
The desperation in his voice is real. The fear is real. But so is the evidence Bogdan showed me, and in my world, evidence trumps emotion every time.
"The Cayman accounts," I say coldly. "The shell companies. The wire transfers using your access codes. Want me to continue?"
Richard goes white. "Someone's been using my codes? But that's impossible. I'm the only one who—" He stops, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Someone is setting me up."
"Who?"
Few people ever admit to their sins right away. It’s human nature. He’ll deny it. He has to. But denial doesn’t change facts.
"I don't know!" He stands up, desperation making him bold. "But think about it, Dante. Why would I steal from you? Your father trusted me for fifteen years. I helped build those accounts, you know how much your family means to me. Hannah doesn't even know what I really do for a living because I wanted to protect her from this world."
Hannah. The mention of her name makes my chest tighten with emotions I can't afford to feel.
"Your daughter is safe," I say, which isn't exactly a lie.
"Where is she?" The question comes out like a gunshot. "What have you done with my daughter?"
"She's under my protection."
"Your protection?" Richard's voice rises. "You took my child?"
"I took collateral for a debt that needs to be paid."
"There is no debt!" He slams his hand on the desk. I'm almost impressed by his courage. Most men would be begging for their lives by now. "I've never stolen from you or your family. Someone is playing us against each other."
"Prove it."
"How can I prove a negative?" He runs his hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in tufts. "You have the account records, you have access to everything. Look at my personal finances—do I live like a man who's stolen five million dollars? Do I drive expensive cars, take lavish vacations, wear thousand-dollar suits?"
He's right, and that's what's bothering me. Richard Quinn lives modestly, drives a ten-year-old Honda, wears off-the-rack clothes that have seen better days. If he's been embezzling millions, he's been remarkably restrained about spending it.
