"You'vebeen cataloging my nervous tics?"Iask. "Isthat part of the standard kidnapping package, or didIpay extra for the stalker add-on?"
Eliasturns slowly.Themovement is fluid, predatory.Hisgray eyes lock onto mine.Theair in theVaultgets thick, requiring actual effort to pull oxygen into my lungs.
"Icatalog everything,Mia."
Theway he says my name makes me sound like an asset he’s hoarding.
"Well, stop it,"Isay, summoning the professional defiance that got me fired from three corporate jobs. "It'sdistracting.Iwas chewing my lip because your filing system for the 2021 second quarter is a disaster."
Hisjaw tightens.Amuscle feathers near his ear.
"Mysystem is flawless," he counters, walking toward the metal table that serves as our shared desk. "Chronologicalby transactionID.Cross-referenced with physical receipts."
"It'smonochrome madness,Elias."Igesture to the spread of papersI’veunleashed across the steel surface. "Youhave operating expenses mixed with capital assets.You’retreating the bakery’s flour shipments like they’re the same category as hardware maintenance.WhichI’massuming is code for bullets."
Stoppingat the edge of the table brings him close enough for me to inhale the scent ofleather and cold air.It’sintoxicating.Iusually prefer my men to smell like expensive cologne.Eliassmells entirely of lethal capability.
"Itbalances," he says flatly.
"Balancingisn't the point.Transparencyis the point.IftheIRSlooks at this, they see chaos.Theysee intent to hide."Ipick up a bright pink highlighter and uncap it with a vicious pop. "That'swhy you need color."
Staringat the neon marker, he curls his lip. "No."
"Yes."Idrag the tip across a line item. "Pinkfor external vendors.Yellowfor internal transfers.Greenfor cash flow.Andblue for the stuff that keeps us all out of federal prison."
Eliasleans over the table.Plantinghis hands on either side of my ledger, trapping me in the cage of his arms without actually touching me.Theheat radiating off his body is substantial.It’scold down here, but suddenlyI’mstripping off my cardigan in my head.
"Youare desecrating my ledgers," he growls.
"Iam saving your ass,"Ichallenge, refusing to lean back.IfIlean back, he wins.Idon’t let men who wear leather cuts to work win. "Youbrought me here to find the mole, right?Tofigure out who’s leaking data to theCostafamily?Ican’t do that wading through a sea of gray text."
Hestares down at me.Heatlike a cracked furnace burns behind his gray irises.
"Pink," he repeats, looking at the lineIjust highlighted.
"Magenta, actually.Itpops."
Anticipatinghim throwing me and my highlighters out of theVaultmakes my muscles lock tight.Thesilence stretches, taut as a wire.Theserver rack hums in the corner, entirely drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears.
Hisharsh jawline twitches.It’smicroscopic.Staringdirectly at his lips allows me to catch the tiny micro-expression.
"Fine," he says roughly. "Butif you use glitter,I’mlocking you in the supply closet."
"Deal."
Pushingoff the table, he walks away.Iexhale a sharp breath.Mypulse hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Ilook down at the numbers.They’reblurring again.
"Focus,Mia,"Iwhisper to myself. "Focuson the fraud.Ignorethe forearms."
Idive back in.Thework is grueling.Numbersdon’t lie.Peoplelie.Numbersjust wait for you to ask them the right questions.Elias’sbooks are a work of art.Theman is a criminal genius.Theway he routes funds throughSweetPineBakeryto cover medical bills is brilliant.
Ipause, my highlighter hovering over a transaction from eight months ago.
Vendor:NorthStarLogistics.Amount: $4,500.Code:Maintenance.
Flippingback three pages reveals a different entry.
