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SIXTY

NICK

I sit down at the desk and turn on the computer screens.

Here it is, my empire at a glance.

There are three computers at my place. It’s a joke calling this guest house at the back of The Splendors “my place,” but I had to keep a low profile, all the while living close to that imbecile, Phil, to curate his daily life and keep up the charade. That turned out to be harder than building a billion-dollar business. Stupid people should be lobotomized. But then I wouldn’t have my business.

I’m about done playing the driver. Trying to be humble. Smiling like a good boy. Following orders in public while wanting to cave in Phil’s face. Acting like I’m one of the staff, one of those gray mice who day to day clean other people’s mess.

Phil truly believes that playing Rosenberg is the biggest acting role of his life. It probably is, considering he’ll be dead as soon as I’m done with him.

I check the latest transfer of partial funds from IxResearch to one of my offshore accounts. That’s another ten million dollars. I launder in increments. I have over a dozen separate accounts all around the world, in the “gray list” countries that are tax havens.

I check the ErFi market price and smile in satisfaction—my baby is growing, gaining popularity thanks to IxResearch.

I look at my watch—Rosenberg should be ready by now. I log out of all the computers and check the house cameras on my phone. There are six. I don’t have cameras in the office, library, or any of the bedrooms, as per Phil’s plea for privacy, but I see him already walking downstairs and into the living room.

Good. He can wait.

I take a quick shower and put on my best suit. Yes, I’m a driver, but at important meetings, I serve as Rosenberg’s assistant. Looking sharp is the best representation of a team.

“Looking fine, Eric,” I tell myself in the mirror, fixing my tie. I might stick with Nick for a while. I like that alias, but I miss my actual name, Eric Fisher—hence the name for my crypto, ErFi.

I fix my hair, spray myself with cologne, and put on my Rolex, all the while aware of Natalie tied and locked in the closet. She should have been a red flag from the start. I was hoping to tap that ass at the first opportunity. She’s my type, despite being a little thick in the thighs. Not only did she not put out, but she was rubbing shoulders with the house manager.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Julien. He’s hardworking, dedicated, quiet, with an impressive résumé. And he knows how to kiss ass—brownie points. Let’s hope Natalie didn’t run her mouth and spill anything to Julien or the other staff about what she found out from Rich. Otherwise, I swear, the whole house will be a giant murder scene, and that’s too much work for my liking.

I pick up the keys and pause, listening for any sounds from the closet. There’s nothing. Natalie’s out. When I get back, we’ll have a chat, and then she’ll join the fate of the others who thought they were smarter than me.

Oh, right, the sedative!

I walk up to the chest of drawers and open the top one. There are two rows of syringe cartridges—red and blue. The red ones contain a regular sedative. The blue ones are loaded with a nerve agent that’s only used by the military. In regular doses, it doesn’t kill but turns a person into a vegetable, unless it interferes with other medications, triggers an allergic reaction, affects a weak heart, or shuts down the kidneys—the list of side effects is a mile long. The average effect is severe enough—brain damage, loss of neurological functions, and amnesia. Nice and clean. I don’t like things messy.

I pick up a blue cartridge and put it in my pocket. The meeting this afternoon is important. Coincidentally, it’s probably the last time Phil will need to show his face, so the “blue pill” will come in handy.