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“Maybe. There was a reason you were caught with your pants down in that sushi restaurant,” he pointed out, making me roll my eyes. “But I’ve had three separate guards on you ever since, and they’ve found no one so I’m not worried. But I did get Conor to scan your computers, make sure there were no trackers on there.”
Knowing he would have the situation in hand, I hummed, a tad disinterestedly, as I opened the catalogue and eyed the coins within them.
They were vintage.
South African.
Even better, they were twenty-four carat gold.
And not just your average Krugerrand.
I wasn’t like Declan—didn’t collect things for their beauty, or for an artistic interpretation that would bring harmony to my environment... or whatever bullshit excuse he gave for spending a wasted fortune at Sotheby’s.
Me? I liked my investments to be portable.
I liked them small.
I liked them to be in a safe at home so that if shit came to shit, and this far, it never had gotten so bad where I needed to run, but if I had to, then I could open my strong box, grab my catalogues of coins and have about five million I could trade in.
Personally, I thought that was a lot fucking smarter than investing six hundred thousand in an antique wardrobe some ancient Chinese dude had stored his clothes in. Couldn’t exactly heft that around on your back, could you? But what the fuck did I know?
“Anything nice in there? I didn’t look seeing as it was a gift to you.”
I shook my head at his words, still, after all these years, unable to believe just how trustworthy my crew was. I treated them right, even gave them an equal status to speak up and discuss shit with me—which wasn’t common in our world—and I paid them well, but that didn’t make loyalty any less of a commodity.
They never let me down though, ever. And considering the mess we were in, our world at war, appreciation hit me harder than it usually did.
“You should pick one,” I said gruffly.
Tink, who was bent over a crate, the rough wood snagging on his suit coat, his head inside it as he reached in to grab the baggies at the bottom, froze then snapped up. “You sick or something?”
I scowled. “No. I’m fine.”
“You sure? I’d check if you have a fever, Scrooge, because we all know you hoard that shit like it comes from a unicorn.”
“Unicorn manure,” I mused. “The most precious shit in the world.”
Tinker snorted, but he tipped his head to the side. “You serious about the coins?”
I shrugged. “Consider it a ‘thank you’ gift for all the overtime.”
His brows rose higher but he replied, “Well, it’s appreciated.”
I just hummed. “Make sure Bagpipes and Forrest pick one too.”
“Will do.” He dipped his chin in a nod, but I could sense his surprise.
I definitely wasn’t a miser, but he wasn’t wrong. I safeguarded my future with high insurance premiums, the likes of which didn’t depend on any stock market or gangland war.
Because the Krugerrands were nice, it was hard not to slip the catalogue under my arm and take it with me. I guessed, in my own way, I was a money magpie, so I shoved my hands into my pockets and strode back to Tink who was still eying me like I had a contagious rash he didn’t want to catch.
“You on your way out?”
We worked all hours, so my leaving at nine was pretty early. “Got a situation over in Brighton Beach.”
“Need a hand?” he asked, straightening up, keying me into the fact that he was ready to have my back before I even asked for it.
I shook my head. “Nothing that bad. Just picking up a package.”
