Page 29 of Dual

She doesn't. She can't.

She'll never be able to handle him. Not the way I can.

It's why they should both give up the ghost and let me take over.

I pop out of the closet after slipping into my black tennis shoes, but then pause at the foot of the bed to admire him. My big, beautiful, dangerous man, sprawled out, one arm slung across the sheets where I used to be. His mouth is parted slightly, his breathing deep and steady. The moonlight spilling through the window casts silver over his sharp cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. He looks almost peaceful. Almost tame.

I sigh happily. What a big, big boy he is. And so very good with his toys.

I shake myself out of it. Fuck. Can't get distracted now.

Never know how much time I've got before twinkle toes wakes up—and I don't mean Donny. Anna's a goddamn buzzkill. And I've got things to do. Don't any of them realize?

No, naturally not. That's the whole point.

Still, every day is so stifling, so dull, while I'm the only one actually doing something to protect their dumb asses. They all walk around in their carefully controlled lives, oblivious and content to pretend everything is fine, while I'm the only one looking out for the real threats lurking in the dark.

It's occasionally infuriating.

I slip soundlessly down the hall, slinking through the shadows down the stairs and into the kitchen. At the back of the pantry, tucked away in a box of crackers no one has evertouched, I retrieve my secret pair of keys and my second phone.

A quick jog over to Donny's office, a smooth login with the backend access he doesn't know I have, and a few keystrokes later, and certain bits of the house security are disabled for several hours.

I shouldn't be long.

Then I'm back through the kitchen, climbing out the window, and slipping into the night, where I truly belong.

Dallas at night is a glittering,filthy thing. Neon signs buzz like flies over rotting meat. The city hums with secrets, and here I am, slipping through the cracks, one more ghost in the dark.

I take the long way to the bunker because I'm not a fucking idiot. Never the same route twice. I take a few turns through some forgotten alleyways, cut through a shitty 24-hour laundromat that smells like mildew, then I glide down a hidden stairwell in the back of a closed-down bodega where the air is thick with dust.

The lock scans my palm. A soft beep. Then the heavy metal door groans open, sealing behind me like the mouth of a beast swallowing its prey.

Inside, it's quiet. The hum of the servers fills the silence, their constant whirring like a mechanical heartbeat. The air is stale and cold. There are no windows, no warmth, and no connection to the outside world—exactly how I designed it.

Six monitors glow in the darkness, casting long shadows against concrete walls. The racks of server lights glow at me like a thousand unblinking eyes. Watching. Waiting.

This is my sanctuary. My church.

And tonight, it might tell me exactly how fucked I am.

I settle into the chair and crack my knuckles. Time to check if any of the monsters I used to work for have figured out that my father has disappeared, his empire crumbling to dust.

I boot up the system and dive in.

Darknet markets. Encrypted forums. Private auction sites where human lives, weapons, organs, and worse are traded like baseball cards. These were my playgrounds once upon a time. I built firewalls for these freaks, installed untraceable networks, and designed bidding platforms so they could spend millions on horrors most people wouldn't dare whisper about.

And Daddy dearest? He was the man behind the curtain, only very occasionally coming out when necessary to make deals with men who killed without blinking. Usually, I was the face, and he was the puppet master pulling the strings. Working with oligarchs. Cartel heads. War criminals. He moved product—guns, bodies, data. Whatever made money. Whatever fed the machine.

Now he's disappeared. Permanently. We made sure of it.

And I need to know if anyone's sniffing around to find out why—or worse, looking for his lovely assistant.

My fingers fly over the keys, muscle memorykicking in. I slip past layers of encryption, then ghost into the back end of a chat room that barely exists. And there it is.

A thread.

Not just any thread.