Page 59

FIFTY-EIGHT

NICK

Another amateur sticking her nose in my business.

Argh!

The numbers are piling up lately.

I should’ve checked Natalie’s background, but I didn’t think much of her.

The only reason I used the mild sedative on her instead of the nerve agent is because I need to know who she’s talked to, if she has. I can’t keep up with all the conniving bitches who are always swarming around Phil, aka Rosenberg.

First, there were all those low-level women Phil hooked up with when we first moved into the mansion. With his designer suit and watch, he is a clear prize for any girl who has the wits for this sort of thing. Manhattan is full of opportunistic sluts who raise their tails at the sight of money. Phil is allowed to bring women over, but he can only keep up the act when sober.

When drunk, the dipshit can’t keep his mouth shut, blabbering about his past, his future, and the crypto he knows nothing about. So, those gold diggers who got a whiff of something shady had to go away for good. Of course, right away, more came, ready to spread their legs for a potential billionaire.

Then, that housekeeper, Darla, started secretly sleeping with Phil and got drunk with him. He blabbered too much, like the ignorant boastful peacock that he is. He called himself Phil. Obviously, she had to go. The nerve agent always works well. It’s expensive, and I really hate to waste it on all the trash.

There was the girl from the club. It puzzles me that Natalie knows about her.

Then there was Rich, who started sending threatening notes. Careless move, too. At first, I thought he was just another lowlife hoping to get rich off random blackmail. He wasn’t clear about what he knew until his last message came with the photograph of Phil Crain and a line on the bottom, Phil Crain or Geoffrey Rosenberg? $20,000,000 .

Ambitious. Also, immature. He thought a burner phone would disguise his whereabouts. I swindle millions in cash and thousands of investors, and the idiot thought he was the smarter one.

I baited him. I didn’t expect him to be in a café, talking to—surprise, surprise—our Natalie.

Another one down. One more to go.

This is getting annoying. The cleanup takes more effort than it should. And all because this low-grade actor from off-Broadway can’t keep up with his role.

I lock up the closet with Natalie inside just as my phone rings again.

Geoffrey Rosenberg , says the caller ID.

This guy is getting on my nerves, but I need him for at least another day.

“About fucking time,” I blurt into the phone when I pick up. “Get ready. Get dressed. Wear your best suit. Best face. You’d better not mess up this meeting. If the breathalyzer shows even a teeny-tiny amount of alcohol in your system, I’m going to kill you, I swear. I need you sharp as a needle.”

“I’m fine! I’m fine! I’m ready!” Phil mumbles.

“I’m fine,” I mimic him with annoyance. “Better be fine.”

“I’m good. Sorry for the last two days. I was under a lot of stress.”

“Yeah, well, this is the wrong time for your fuckups. You don’t have to do a damn thing besides look smart. I know that’s a chore but keep your little brain alert. It’s in your best interest.”

“I’m working hard here, Nick.”

I close my eyes, wanting to punch him in the face. I would’ve if he were here. Actually, no, I wouldn’t have. I would’ve cracked his ribs. I did once, when he got me pissed off by disappearing and binging for three days straight while we were supposed to do an online World Digital Forum presentation.

I’m so tired of that imbecile. He’s a mediocre actor and a pathetic person. The only reason he got this gig is pure luck and his uncanny resemblance to the actual Rosenberg. And the actual one? May his soul rest in peace in the backyard of a summer cabin in Vermont. The twenty-first century is all about the survival of the fittest, and the real Geoffrey Rosenberg didn’t make the cut.