Chapter Eight

A nnoyed by the sight of the Jag in the circular drive, I enter the house preparing for battle only to hear a slew of heated French coming from my kitchen.

"Trouvez-le." Find him.

A brief pause.

"Pas d'excuses. Vous avez une heure." No excuses. You have one hour.

Tobias ends the call just as I come into view. He looks perplexed, furiously typing away on a laptop on the island. It's only been a few days since our confrontation at the pool, but it's clear he fully intends to take advantage of his position.

"Mind telling me what the hell you're doing here?" I make my way past him to open the fridge door to grab a water. I'm covered in sweat from my hike. He barely spares me a glance when he replies.

"Protecting my interest."

"You think you can manage that somewhere else, preferably far, far away?"

He scans the screen and slams his laptop closed. "Putain!" Fuck . Chest heaving, he picks up one of his cellphones from the counter in front of him before dialing. "Get the new here. Ten minutes."

He crosses the kitchen, grabbing a nearby bottle of gin and pouring a healthy drink into a tumbler full of ice. He circles it, deep in thought, with the ice cubes rattling as he swishes the clear liquid, one, two, three times before he takes a long pull.

"It's a little early for a cocktail, isn't it?"

Silence.

"Good talk." I roll my eyes. I'm halfway to the dining room when he speaks up behind me.

"You're wrong, you know. It's not people like you and your mother."

"What?"

"When we first spoke, you said I was fighting for people like you and your mother."

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

"Everything's wrong with that," he bites. "Everything. You want to single yourselves out."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant. It's not just the blue-collar workers at your father's plant or anywhere else for that matter. That's secular thinking."

"Fine. I think wrong, I love wrong, my loyalty is misplaced, and I'm just an all-around fumbling idiot. Pardon me if I don't give a shit that I'm not up to your standards."

He again swirls the ice in his drink, one, two, three times before taking another sip.

"You're tracking my every move already. Do you really have to be present to do so?"

"I'm cleaning up the fucking mess that's been left for me."

"I don't understand why you're vetting me so hard. I don't know if you've been to a ‘party' recently, but have you seen some of the people working under your fat thumb?"

He eyes me speculatively over the rim of his glass before he lowers it.

Just as he's about to speak, the doorbell rings and I roll my eyes.

"These aren't your headquarters. This is my temporary home. Find another place to do your evil overlord bidding."

He moves past me, ignoring my comment entirely before answering the door. A second later, RB and Terrance walk in.

"Hey, girl," RB greets me, just as Terrance speaks up looking between Tobias and me. "Thought you were Dom's girl. You're getting around, aren't you?"

Humiliation heats my face as he eyes me in a way that lets me know exactly what he thinks about me.

Tobias's demeanor shifts before he turns to me, his expression granite. "Give me your keys."

"What?"

He lowers his eyes to the keys in my hand. "Give me your car keys, Cecelia."

"Yeah, I don't think so." He walks over to me and holds out his hand, and I sigh before handing them over. He turns and hurls them at Terrance, who barely manages to catch them at his chest, a wince on his face from the sting. Tobias's tone is unforgiving when he speaks.

"Wash and shine her car—soap, sponge, water, and wax, and she better be able to see her fucking reflection in it when you're done."

I step forward. "That's not necessary, I—"

Tobias cuts me off with a look while RB glances over to Terrance with a ‘you just fucked up' written in his expression. Tobias addresses RB next. "You watch him do it."

RB nods, regarding Tobias with distinct respect.

Tobias ignores them both as they glance around the foyer. "You're coming with me."

"Uh, no I'm not, I'm in need of a shower—"

"We'll be back in an hour," he tells them both, gripping me by the arm to escort me out. "No one gets past this door. Tyler will meet you here in ten."

"Got it," RB answers.

I rip my arm away just as Tobias rounds the driver's side of his Jaguar.

"I want to talk to Tyler."

"No."

"Well, I'm not decent," I snap, arms crossed in an attempt to hold my ground.

"This isn't a fucking date. And we're not done with our conversation. Get. In. The. Car."

We lock our eyes on each other for a second, then two, before I slide into his leather seat. Shortly after, we're flying down the lone road toward town.

"Want to tell me why you're giving anyone with ink access to Roman's house?"

Silence.

"You didn't have to do that back there, you know? I can take care of myself."

More infuriating silence.

"If disrespecting women is a hard limit for you, you might want to consider taking a closer inspection at your reflection."

He navigates the roads easily as I scowl at the side of his head, attuned to the fact I must reek after a two-hour hike, my skin sticky from dried sweat. My hair matted in a heap atop my head.

"Where are we going?"

He remains mute, relaxed in his seat as we drive another ten minutes until he whips into the parking lot of my bank.

"Making a deposit?"

He backs into one of the spots on the opposite side of the door facing the entrance.

"Let me guess, scoping for your next big heist?"

"Jesus." He shakes his head. "Just watch."

"What am I looking for?"

"Criminals. I want you to take a good look at that building and tell me when you spot one."

"Really? We're looking for criminals based on appearance ?"

"Says the girl who just asked me if I've seen some of the people working under my fat thumb."

"I just meant—"

"No way to justify that statement. Now, based on that line of thinking, let's find some criminals."

An older man walks out of the bank; he looks to be in his eighties and holds the door for a younger woman walking in.

"Nope."

"How do you know? Because he held the door for her?"

"I don't for sure. But he doesn't look the type."

"What's the type? Everyone dressed in a hoodie? Everyone with tats? Who smells like pot? Sagging skinny jeans? Skin color? What about haircut? Can you tell by a haircut?"

"You've made your point." Heat travels up my neck.

"No, I haven't. Watch."

And I do. For several minutes I scrutinize every person walking in and out of the bank and dismiss them.

"You don't see one?"

"This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to know?"

"How about this one?"

A forty-something man walks out in a soiled work uniform just before he climbs into a utility truck.

"Clearly a hard worker. Looks local, and he's probably all about providing for his family. This is wrong. I get what I said was generalizing but—"

"Where's the criminal, Cecelia?"

"I don't know."

"What about this guy?" Tobias juts his chin toward a suit walking in.

"I don't know!"

"Then keep looking."

I search our conversation until I realize I've been looking at the people, not the building itself. "It's the bank, isn't it?"

"You think organized crime is as bad as it gets?" he says, staring up at the logo before turning to me. "Ask yourself this: why is a twenty-year-old employee feeling threatened enough by management to bring her elderly grandma into the branch to open a second bank account she doesn't need?"

"Because it's her job?"

"It's so her granddaughter can reach her eight accounts a day quota so she can keep her job. Because there were thousands just like her in small towns, who thought they were signing on to be a part of a well-known bank with a stellar reputation and, only a week or so in, found out they were dancing chickens. Every day they felt pressured to open accounts. A ploy by the powers that be to drive up stock prices to an untouchable status, to fatten an overstuffed cow because Midas rich wasn't fucking rich enough. Some resorted to opening accounts for dead people. This happened every day for years, all the while these people, these low-level employees, desperate for a paycheck, were being mentally abused to the point they committed criminal acts."

" I bank here."

"Then you're contributing to the problem without being aware of it. It all trickles from the top. If you think the bad guys are the ones selling dimes on the street, that's nothing compared to these fucking crooks. And the sad part is that some of the current customers wouldn't blink if it were brought to their attention, because it's someone else's problem. Their money is covered federally, so very few give a fuck if they're banking with a known and exposed criminal. But if enough of those customers cared, they wouldn't be getting away with it. But they did and still are. The higher-ups should have been crucified for what they did. There was a hearing. They paid a hefty fine, one that did absolutely nothing to hurt their bottom line. The CEO stepped down after the hearing, but no jail time was served, and here they are today, still in fucking business."

He focuses back on the bank, a clear look of disdain on his face.

"You want to find real criminals? Follow the money. Always follow the fucking money. I'm not saying none of it was earned legitimately, but I'm saying those who did earn it legitimately are grouped with those who didn't. It truly is a small world once you connect the dots. It's an incestuous mess. Everyone has fucked everyone at some point, and most of them stay in bed together for the same reason."

"You're talking about the one percent? The wealthiest."

"That's where it gets tricky, because that trickles from the top too."

"This really happened, and they got away with it?"

He slowly nods. "But most people are paying attention to Janet Jackson's halftime nipple peepshow or something similar because it takes the focus away from the real thieves."

"A distraction?"

"They create them and, at times, pay for them. The media is easily bought or influenced by the same people occupying the same fucking bed, and the world is kind enough to take care of the rest."

He turns the car over and takes off out of the parking lot. I study him while he drives and can't help the shift in my contempt. He's fed up. Not just for the plant workers in this town but for everyone within reach of the vultures who prey on all unsuspecting citizens, daily. And I've indirectly been in bed with this criminal since I was old enough to open a bank account.

"So, I close my account, and that's supposed to make a difference?"

"You close your account and you feel better about the part you play in it. You tell ten people about it, and maybe two listen and close their accounts. That's the hard way, the slower, more painful process, and in the end, they'll still win."

"So, what would you do?"

"Aim for the head , not the foot ."

I mull it over and turn to him, his thick, dark lashes my focal point. "If you don't trust me, then why are you so intent on making me understand?"

"We made a deal. I'm sticking to it. If you're asking if I have better things to do, the answer is yes, I fucking do. You asked about vetting, but I can count on one hand the people who know who you really are."

He clicks his signal at the stoplight and turns to me. "Those people at the parties, they all have a part to play that has nothing to fucking do with the foot."

Roman. My father is part of the foot.

"So, they're all looking for ways to get the head of the monster?"

His eyes linger on me for long seconds, taking me in in my shorts and tank before he floors the gas.

His business with Roman is personal, but he'd just told me in so many words that dear old dad is just the tip of the iceberg. I asked Tobias not long ago just how big this was, how far this went, and he just gave me a bird's eye view...from space.

Chess, again. But this time I studied up a little. I move to take one of his pawns and I catch the amused expression in his gaze when he realizes it.

"Best summer ever," I grumble as he swishes the ice in his glass.

"What will you do when it's over?"

"I'm sure you know of my college plans."

"I'm aware." He moves a pawn as a thick lock of hair falls across his forehead. I ignore the sudden urge to reach out and push it away. "But what will you do ?"

"After? Not sure yet. Definitely not following my father's footsteps in the family business, not that you're giving me much of a choice."

"You couldn't care less about his company."

"Not true, I care a great deal about the future of his employees."

Silence passes as he swirls his rocks around before he speaks.

"Roman pulled a Zuckerberg just before he bankrupted his first business partner to gain control of their company. It was a small venture, but that move gave him enough monetary gain to play his first hand on a bigger gamble."

I sit back, stunned by his revelation about my father's dirty deeds. "When?"

"Years before you were born. This gained him his first enemy. Jerry Siegal. The irony? He's making his comeback by being just as fucking crooked."

I bite my lip and look up to see him watching me. "You're sure?"

Another swish of the ice, one, two, three times in his glass before he drains the liquid and stands.

"So, do you sleep in the woods?"

He slips on his jacket. "I might." He nods toward where I sit next to the fireplace. "Don't touch the board."

"Oh, goodie, you'll be back," I stand. "Can't wait."

He takes a menacing step toward me, and I take one back, turning my head to avoid his effect on me. With the lip of the couch touching my thighs, I'm out of space, and with his next step, I'm engulfed in flames, the paralyzing knowledge that if he so much as reaches out and touches me, my body will react. I hold my breath to keep from inhaling him in as he inspects me closely from inches away.

"What is it about you?" he asks, his voice close to a whisper. I take it as just another insult, an inquiry as to what Sean and Dominic saw in me.

I step to the side to give myself some breathing room, and he moves in.

"Can you just give me some leash? That's all I'm asking. Maybe knock before entering?" He leans in, his nose running along the side of my neck without contact, but the effect is the same.

"No." It's a faint whisper, but the message is received as if he'd shouted it. Shortly after, when the front door closes, I stand there fixed on the direction he went, my limbs heavy. He's infuriating, and fighting with him is starting to feel pointless.

That night, I dream of amber eyes and lightning bugs.