The moment I think too much, the moment I think about this dark pit inside me that’s crushing my soul from the inside, I’ll crumble. I’ll break apart and shatter into a thousand tiny pieces like the chandelier that left several small scars on the palms of my hands.
Picking up the coffee, I silence my mind by burning my tongue on the hot drink and returning to my phone. Rather than burying myself in the news, I focus on my next move. Thanks to Saoirse’s investigation, I was able to recover several international accounts involved in the transfer of large amounts of money from her files. Saoirse appears to have tagged several payments related to shipping containers holding slaves thatwere sent overseas, payments from the auction she herself was involved in. These tags have pinged all over the world in an attempt to shake anyone tracking them, but Saoirse was good. She knew how to isolate which transactions were legit, and that’s what I’ve been doing.
The money finally landed in Italy and has sat for three days in an account that no one has accessed. There’s no name on the account, and I lack the skills to crack the security and find the hidden details of the owner, so I have to do this the old-fashioned way. With phone calls and a believable disguise.
“Shit,” I murmur to myself as I tap through the banking app to the tracked account. “What the fuck?” Leaning forward, I set my phone down as if that will help me see it better.
Empty. The account is empty? How can that be?
I checked it an hour ago and the forty-two million was sitting cozy. Now it’s empty with no history of any kind of transaction. What am I missing? I have no choice but to call the bank.
A flurry of Italian greets me but it quickly switches to English as soon as I speak.
“I need your help regarding one of my accounts. I just checked and saw all of my money missing and you'd better have a damn good reason for that!”
“I am so sorry, sir,” comes the flustered response from whoever has taken my call. “That’s highly irregular. Can I have the name on the account, sir?”
Shit. I don’t have the name. My only hope here is to play into how patchy her English is and how a thick Irish accent is thebane of anyone not used to it. Thickening my words, I steamroll straight into an argument.
“This is fucking foul, you understand me? You should be grateful that I even thought about opening an account with the lot of you and this is how you treat me? Aye, more feel me, ain’t it? I should have seen this coming. You lot just ain’t got the security, do you? Y’think you can steal from me and get away with it? You got any idea who I am, lass? Nah, I didn’t think so. How about you tell me where my money is and then we’ll see about how many of you cunts are gonna get fired!” I reel off the account number and sink back in my chair.
“Sir, please, you have my deepest apologies,” the woman says, stumbling over her words in a frantic rush. “Let me just take a look at your account and see if I can get some answers for you.”
It worked. Thank fuck.
“Aye, you better,” I mutter, glancing down the empty street and watching a car at the far end struggle to do a U-turn in such a restricted space.
“Sir, you currently have no funds in that account.”
“Aye, I’m aware!” I bark. “That’s the whole reason I’m?—”
Suddenly, my phone is swiftly snatched out of my hand and a red-manicured thumb hangs up the call. Every nerve in my body jumps in fright at the interruption and my right hand shoots down to my hidden gun while I swivel to face who the fuck thinks they can interrupt my call.
Then, my heart stops dead in my chest.
I’m staring up into a pair of familiar eyes bluer than the Mediterranean waters. Eyes I lost myself in, once upon a time.Her full, soft pink lips pull into a gentle smile as she twirls my phone around between her fingers and offers it back to me. Dark lashes sweep her cheeks as she blinks and thick, black hair full of untamed waves drapes down one shoulder as she tilts her head in my direction.
“The money is in France,” she says softly, her words sharpened by the Russian accent she never managed to lose despite all her decades living in America. It’s similar to the Irish twang I developed as a child, and no amount of time in the States could remove the Celtic surge in my words.
I can’t speak. I can’t believe she’s even here after all this time. My fingers tighten around my gun and her eyes snap down to my hip. A second later, her dark brows pinch together just above her sharp, angular nose. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’ve always been the faster shot and you know that.”
“Are you here to kill me?” I say, and heat flushes down my back at how hoarse my voice sounds to my own ears.
“Why would you think that?”
My eyes narrow. “The Russian Underboss just happens to arrive at my table in the middle of fucking Italy. What other conclusion would I draw?”
Her head lifts and her gaze drifts to a couple who slip past us and walk into the cafe I’m seated outside. “You can’t think of any other reason?”
My grip on my weapon tightens further. She’s alluding to a different time, a different life. The world doesn’t work like that anymore. Not my world. “No.”
“Pity.” Her full lips press into a thin line, making all the color vanish until they’re as pale as her natural features.
“So?”
Her gaze returns to me after the couple inside have been seated. “I’m not here to kill you.”
“Then why the fuck are you here?”
