"I notice things." His gaze held mine. "Shall we start the tour?"
∞∞∞
He led me through the offices—conference rooms, the IT center with banks of computers and cameras everywhere, break rooms, storage areas.
"Security is tight," I observed.
"Has to be. In my business, information is everything." He stopped at a steel door at the end of a hallway. "You'll be given access to this room. Personal code plus facial recognition."
He punched in numbers. A camera in the corner blinked. The door clicked open.
Inside was a concrete-reinforced vault. Filing cabinets lined one wall. Computers on another. Paper shredders and chemical containers at the far end.
"This room serves dual purposes," Quentin explained. "Safe room if needed, but primarily, this is where I keep everything important. Physical copies of deals, acquisitions, financials. Dossiers on friends, enemies, law enforcement contacts. Bearer bonds, property titles, vehicle registrations." He paused. "Even the title to a Cessna 172."
"A small plane?"
"That I can pilot, yes. Escape plan. If I ever need to disappear, I have contingencies."
"Contingencies on contingencies."
"Exactly." He gestured to the shredders and acid containers. "If this room is ever compromised, procedure is to destroy everything. Shred, then acid, then—" he pointed to a panel on the ceiling, "—incinerate. Twenty seconds to get out once you start the sequence."
I studied the setup, impressed despite myself. "No reconstructing ash."
"That's the idea." He touched my elbow lightly. "Come on. Let's find Barbara."
That small touch sent electricity up my arm.
This is bad. This is very bad.
∞∞∞
The kitchen was surprisingly large, equipped like a small restaurant.
"Coffee?" Quentin gestured to an elaborate machine.
"Please. I thought you'd never ask."
"The machine makes everything, but I usually just use the Nespresso." He pointed to a drawer. "Pods are in there."
I found them—Kona, Italian roasts, French blends. "You like the Italian?"
"How'd you know?"
"Lucky guess." I loaded three pods, grabbed three mugs Barbara had set out.
"He takes it black," Barbara said, appearing in the doorway. Smiling. Warm. "And the Hawaiian blend is my favorite."
"Got it." I handed them each a mug, kept the third for myself.
We sat around the small table. Barbara launched into job basics—schedules, procedures, vendor management, travel arrangements.
She was kind. Patient. The type of person who probably baked cookies for her grandkids.
She's retiring to Maui,I remembered from my research.Carlo will send someone to—
Guilt hit like a punch.
