Inigo’s POV
"We bought you twenty-four hours," Paul had panted over the encrypted line, the chaos of the raid still echoing behind him.
"We claimed the audio was a deepfake extortion attempt. But Inigo, the feds have the physical ledgers. If they find Harriet, if she testifies..."
"She won't," I snapped, and hung up.
I stood in the dimly lit basement of the safehouse. Across the steel table sat three men. Ex-military. Ghost operatives.
Men who didn't exist on paper, whose loyalty was bought with duffel bags of untraceable cash.
I tossed a thick folder onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud.
"Her name is Harriet Vance," I said, my voice cold and hollow. "She’s bleeding, she’s weak, and she’s hiding behind Samuel Russo’s crest. I don't care how many of Russo’s street thugs you have to put down. Find her."
The lead mercenary, a man with a jagged scar cutting across his jaw, opened the folder. He glanced at Harriet’s photo. "And when we find her?"
"Kill her," I said without a shred of hesitation.
The word tasted like ash, but it was necessary. Harriet was a rabid dog that needed to be put down.
"Make it messy," I instructed, leaning over the table, my eyes locking onto the mercenary's cold stare. "Slit her wrists. Throw her off a bridge. I want it to look like a tragic, textbook suicide. The hysterical, grieving mother who simply couldn't bear the loss of her stillborn child. The media will eat it up. It will completely discredit the broadcast."
The mercenary nodded slowly, sliding the folder into his leather jacket. "It will cost you triple. Russo’s territory is a death trap."
"I have more money than God," I sneered. "Just bring me her head."
I left the safehouse and returned to the penthouse through the private underground garage.
The lobby was swarming with reporters, but my armed security detail kept them at bay, shoving cameras away from the tinted glass.
The penthouse was dead silent. The shattered espresso cup had been cleaned up, but the air felt thick, suffocating.
"Inigo?"
Layla appeared at the top of the glass staircase. She had changed out of her silk robe into a sleek, designer dress.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide with manufactured terror.
She ran down the stairs and threw her arms around my neck, burying her face in my chest.
"The news," she sobbed, her voice trembling perfectly. "It’s everywhere. They’re calling us monsters, Inigo. They’re saying I faked my illness. They’re saying you stole Harriet’s money. What are we going to do?"
I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her close. She was my anchor. The only thing in this miserable, chaotic day that still belonged to me.
"Breathe, Layla," I murmured, kissing the top of her head. "It’s a smear campaign. Harriet has lost her mind. I’ve already handled it. My lawyers are blocking the subpoenas, and I have men tracking Harriet down right now. By tomorrow morning, this will all be over."
She looked up at me, her lower lip quivering. "You promise? We aren't going to lose everything?"
"I promise," I said smoothly, projecting the absolute confidence of a billionaire. "I built this empire. A hysterical, barren woman isn't going to tear it down. We will weather this storm together. Go to the bedroom and rest."
Layla nodded, wiping a delicate tear from her cheek. "I love you, Inigo."
"I love you too."
I watched her walk back up the stairs. But the moment she turned the corner, the fragile, terrified facade vanished.
I caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. Her tears stopped instantly. Her face hardened into a mask of cold, calculating panic.
She didn't go to the bed to rest. She walked straight to her vanity.
I stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs, watching her reflection. She pulled out a massive leather duffel bag from beneath the vanity. With frantic, jerky movements, she began yanking open her jewelry boxes.
Diamond necklaces. Sapphire earrings. Tennis bracelets. The millions of dollars of jewelry I had bought her with Harriet’s money.
She dumped them all into the bag, not caring if the precious stones scratched against each other.
She grabbed her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen, her eyes darting nervously toward the bedroom door.
She was checking her personal bank balances. She was preparing to run.
A sickening knot twisted in my gut. Layla wasn't standing by me. She was a rat preparing to flee a sinking ship.
But I pushed the thought down. I couldn't deal with her betrayal right now. I needed liquidity. I needed to secure my assets before the feds froze the domestic accounts entirely.
I turned away from the mirror and strode into my private study, locking the heavy mahogany door behind me.
I sat at my desk and opened my encrypted laptop. The screen glowed to life. I bypassed the standard banking portals and logged directly into the Cayman Islands offshore network.
I had three hidden accounts. Two hundred million dollars in untraceable liquid assets. It was my safety net. The money I would use to pay the mercenaries, bribe the judges, and rebuild my empire once Harriet was dead.
I typed in the twelve-digit alphanumeric password.
Processing...
I tapped my fingers impatiently against the mahogany desk. The feds were fast, but they didn't have jurisdiction in the Caymans. I was untouchable here.
I initiated a wire transfer for fifty million dollars to a shell company in Geneva.
I hit Execute.
The screen froze.
The loading wheel spun for three agonizing seconds.
Then, the screen flashed violently. The calming blue interface vanished, replaced by a glaring, blood-red background.
A single line of stark white text appeared in the center of the screen.
TRANSACTION FAILED.
I frowned, my heart skipping a beat. I slammed my finger against the enter key, trying to force the command through.
"Come on," I hissed, sweat beading on my forehead. I typed in the master override command.
The screen flashed red again. But this time, the text changed.
The words burned into my retinas, shattering the last remaining pillar of my untouchable world.
ACCESS DENIED.
ACCOUNTS FROZEN BY PRIMARY BENEFICIARY: HARRIET VANCE.
