“You haven’t left me any choice.I’m in the middle of an emergency for another client,” she says, capturing the precise rhythm of my voice. “Can I call you back?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Fiona called—what was it? A week ago. The day the Quebec hospital was taken down by ransomware. The day Tarasov threatened Mr. and Mrs. A.
I’ve run Lone Wolf for almost ten years, building my business from the Anderson’s basement guest room to a multi-billion-dollar-a-year enterprise. I have never—never—forgotten an obligation to a top-tier client. Especially not one who has a squad of hit men at her beck and call.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I won’t even try to offer an excuse.”
“There isn’t one.”
“I know.”
“Things might be different if you were volunteering your time,” she says.
“I know.”
“I’ve paid your retainer every month, without questioning a cent.”
“I absolutely know. Fiona, I… Christ,” I swear again. “Why didn’t you callmeback?”
“I was too busy finding someone to take your place.”
“Who’d you get?”
I brace myself. I know the names of all my top competitors. I can argue why Lone Wolf is better than any of them—especially for a business like the Old Colony Crew that has to avoid regulatory notice at all cost.
Uncharacteristically, Fiona flinches first. She glances out the window at flyover country far below. She rubs her thumb against the binding of her own dossier. She chews her lower lip.
“Who did you hire, Fiona?”
“Nobody,” she finally admits. “The outfit I brought in on a trial basis didn’t last forty-eight hours.”
“Give me another chance.”
“Not unless you can promise your undivided attention.”
I couldn’t do that even before my current mess. I need to develop RedBear for Tarasov. I need to identify tax deductions before my fortune is devoured by the IRS. I need to keep Kate happy.
I need to keep Kate happy.
Fiona is looking at me as if she’s considering shoving me out the emergency exit. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me, Cole.”
“I won’t.” I hurry to correct myself. “I’m not.”
“You can’t just send me another hyper-hormonal boy who’ll spend more time trying to get into my pants than locking up my computer files.”
“I won’t send you a boy.”
She gives me a sidelong look, one I’m sure she’s practiced for years. Purring as if she just awoke in a heart-shaped bed beneath a ceiling mirror, she asks, “You’re sending me a man?”
I snort, because Fiona’s outrageous flirting has never had any power over me. I helped her when she was a scared, lost kid fighting for her family’s throne. I even taught her how to negotiate—a lot of good that’s doing me now.
All of Fiona’s suggestive games—the naked flesh beneath her jacket, the chewed lip, the bedroom voice—they don’t work because I’ve never wanted what she pretends to offer. Even before she became Boston’s Queen, I knew enough to stay away from a game where I couldn’t fix the rules.
Besides, I already have a woman. I have a wife.
I have a wife who’s been bored ever since she lost her team of hackers. More than once, Kate has begged me to let her work on Lone Wolf matters. Aside from letting her help with a scam I directed at Pyotr Tarasov, I’ve refused every one of Kate’s requests. I need to provide for both of us. I need to be the one in charge.
But I’m not a fucking idiot. All my justifications seem frivolous now that I’m about to lose a key account.
