“Yeah!” He grins and—naturally, as boys do—interprets the fall as an invitation to wrestle. He launches at me. I catch him midair just before he collides into a shelf of board books.
“You’re a natural.” Charlie’s mom beams. “Are you here every Friday? Because this place could use a few more knights in shining armor.”
I offer a strained smile and dare another glance over the top of the bookshelf. Cybil’s at the counter now, talking with an employee. If I don’t get out of this preschool rom-com subplot, I’m going to lose her again. And after Italy, I’m not ready for round two of the vanishing act.
“It was nice meeting you.” I look from mother to child. “Charlie.”
She steps in front of me and blocks my escape. “This might be a little bold, but Charlie doesn’t usually take to people. If you’re single, maybe I could get your number? We could meet here again? Or at the park? Or my—”
“Excuse me, sir.” A store employee appears beside us, holding a large book with the caution of someone handling nuclear material. “Here’s that book you asked for.”
She hands me a hardcover with the titleSurviving Incurable Fungal Infections.
My cheeks flame and I try to shove the book back at her. “I didn’t ask for this,” I stammer.
From the corner of my eye, I see Cybil watching. Smiling. Smug.
“We don’t have the one on rashes,” the employee adds helpfully, “but we can order it for you.”
Charlie’s mom blinks. Looks at me. Then the book. Then me again.
“Good luck with that,” she says, scooping up her son like I’m radioactive and speed-walking toward the exit.
The employee leaves me with my book and my publicly diagnosed fictional fungus, and when I look to find Cybil, she’s gone.
Chapter 24
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Saturday night
There’s an art to schmoozing criminals. You don’t want to look too eager, or they’ll think you’re an informant. Too aloof, and they’ll think you’re a cop. The trick is to be just corrupt enough to belong but not so corrupt someone assumes you’re a threat and you end up in a ditch.
Which, considering the crowd and Ramirez’s growing suspicion, might be a very real possibility.
So here I am wearing my best “definitely not a federal agent” smile and nodding through another conversation about hedge funds, offshore accounts, and the best way to “protect” assets in Singapore.
Oh, and in a charcoal gray suit that has the vibes of Daniel Craig’s Bond inSpectre—taste matters too.
Excusing myself from the conversation, I lift a glass of overpriced bourbon from a passing server’s tray and survey the crowd. Ramirez has spared no expense tonight. Blackwood Prime isn’t one of those overhyped places where people take pictures of their food. The steak house is tucked into a nondescript corner of the city, the kind of place you only know about if someone invites you. No flashy signs, no glowy entrance. Just a single brushed-steel door and a valet who knows your name before you even step out of the car.
Inside it’s modern and intimate. Low amber lighting, dark mahogany paneling, and black leather seating. It’s a place built to look unassuming, but the handpicked wine list, not to mention the temperature-controlled wall-length glass case displaying rare dry-aged beef like museum pieces waiting to be sacrificed, screams money.
Since the restaurant is closed to the public tonight, I have no doubt that every server, every chef, and every bartender is either hand-selected or paid off to keep their mouths shut. The guest list is impressive—enough financial corruption in one room to give the SEC a heart attack.
But none of that matters to me. The only criminal on my radar is Ramirez. He’s not leaving anything to chance tonight—security is stationed around the restaurant, with a team at the door scanning every guest. I give my breast pocket a quick pat, reassuring myself that the hollowed-out pen hiding the YubiKey duplicator is still there.
“Gym socks and Doritos.”
Ruby’s voice crackles in my ear and I find a quiet corner. “What?”
“The smell.” She gags. “It’s like I’m stuck in my little brother’s bedroom circa his high school days.”
Tonight Ruby’s running surveillance in a van parked down the street. She wasn’t happy about being behind-the-scenes, but we were left with little choice. There isn’t one person in this room who doesn’t have a wealth portfolio in the multimillions. Ruby attended the museum gala as a colleague, and her presence tonight would have risked raising questions we didn’t want to spend time answering. Instead, our focus became introducing Seth Jackson as “Grant Holloway”—a high-risk, high-reward investor who owns Holloway Global Holdings.
A live jazz trio plays in the corner, and I find Seth holding up the wall near a hallway that leads to the restroom. Dressed in a sharp suit and gold Rolex, our forensic accountant showed up tonight looking the part of interested investor who’s rumored to have skirted regulations when it comes to projects he’s backed in energy, tech, and defense contracts.
