Page 86 of Lethal Obsession

Nor is it any coincidence that the designer clothes now hanging in the guest suite are all in Ofelia’s size—and still have tags on them.

My own yacht, the Guapa, has the same custom-built piano room, retrofitted when I upgraded it a couple of years ago. Along with a similarly stocked wardrobe.

Yeah, the thought of having Ofelia alone on one of my yachts has crossed my mind once or twice over the years.

Once or twice, huh? More like every idle moment, asshole.

It’s no wonder I built back my empire so fast. Sometimes it’s felt like work is the only refuge from the memory of her body beneath my own in that cell. The darker the work, the further I can drive the fantasies away.

The nights, however, are another thing entirely.

Sleeping is when the fantasies become nightmares.

I shift restlessly off the railing, walk to the bar, and reach for the vodka bottle. Then I think better of it and take out my laptop instead.

I wouldn’t give Mak the satisfaction of admitting it, but the truth is that working on Lars’s Helsinki project has saved my sanity in the time since my self-imposed exile. In fact, I’ve enjoyed it so much that I’ve expanded on the original idea to the point where Lars has refused to take my calls, telling me to just send updates to the team instead.

And since my conversation with Mak, I’ve had another idea brewing in the back of my mind that just won’t quit.

“I suggest you learn how to code yourself into invisibility,” he said. It was a lighthearted comment he no doubt meant as a warning, but it got me thinking: What if there was a platform that enabled people to do exactly that?

Not people, exactly.

Criminals.

Assassins.

People who need to be able to disappear, at least for a while.

There have always been fixers out there, who people like me go to for a new identity. Even Mickey and Lars, with a full geek squad, need fixers for the actual documents. Increasingly, however, the documents themselves are symbolic, just a gateway to the complexities of biometric identification and the seemingly endless online trail we all leave behind in our day-to-day lives.

But what if that trail could be erased?

It’s an idea that just won’t let me go. And I’ve learned over the years that when an idea keeps coming back to me, teasing the edge of my brain, I need to pay attention to it, even if only to decide it has no legs.

This idea has legs.

I know it. I can feel it. But like lightning just over the horizon, I can’t fucking see it.

And when I do catch glimpses of the possibilities, the scope of the concept is so great it’s intimidating, even to me. It’s the kind of idea that means server centers. An army of geeks to rival Roman’s Mercura setup.

A complete life shift.

Big ambitions for a criminal on the run from countless enemies.

I start writing code, then stop, erase, and begin again, but it’s no use.

The concept buzzes around the electrodes of my brain like a particularly annoying mosquito, loud enough to drive me mad but never quite drawing blood.

Finally I throw the laptop aside, resisting the urge to look at my phone for the hundredth time.

Surely she should be here by now?

Just as I decide I can’t take another minute of waiting unless I have a stiff drink in my hand, Andrew appears at the door to my suite. “Boss,” he says. “They’re here. I’m sending the tender now.”

“Don’t bother.” I’m already heading for the ladder. “I’ll take it myself.”

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