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EPILOGUE

NATALIE

A YEAR LATER

SANTORINI ISLAND, GREECE

“Take your time!” Cara yells from the private spa room, which is larger than our Jersey City apartment.

That’s the thing you find out while staying at an island resort—not every room that has a toilet and a shower is called a bathroom. The one in our villa has a bathtub, a steam shower, and a mini salt room, and is called “a private spa room.”

Currently, Cara is lying in a stone bathtub filled with warm water and bubbles. An arched window overlooks the caldera. Santorini Island is gorgeous, and Cara says that we should move here. Despite my online freelance jobs that give me freedom to work from anywhere, I don’t think we can afford to live in Greece yet, though it’s definitely on my bucket list.

“I’m getting pastries and coming right back!” I shout back.

I lock the door and take the narrow stone path between the whitewashed buildings to the local bakery.

It’s early morning, and the street is deserted. Ocean waves crash against the shore in the distance. Salty breeze, amazing local food—the several days we’ve spent on the island so far have been nothing short of amazing.

While I don’t talk to Cara about what happened a year ago, it’s always on my mind. I hate lying. Technically, I am going to the bakery for fresh pastries. But I’m more curious about the latest Time magazine article about IxResearch. So when I get to the bakery, I briefly chat with Christina, the owner, all the while eyeing the Time magazine lying on the side of the counter and eventually pick it up.

A familiar face stares back at me from the cover.

Well, hello.

The headshot is split in half. Half of it is red-haired Rosenberg, with a cocked brow, confident and cold, with a green eye. The other half is Phil Crain with outgrown blond hair, stubbled chin, saggy eyelid, and blue eye.

ONCE MAN OF THE YEAR.

NOW AN EX-CONVICT.

WHAT DOES THE FUTURE HOLD FOR

ONE OF THE BIGGEST FRAUDS

OF THE CENTURY?

Phil Crain is fresh out of prison. He got off easy. Apparently, he is a victim in this story. It’s a universal truth that assholes live forever.

The sight of him yanks me back to the days at The Splendors Mansion a year ago, the days that still feel surreal, something I dreamed up.

For weeks after The Splendors fire, the story was all over the news. I didn’t leave home, waiting for someone—anyone—to knock on my door. But there were no unexpected visits from the police or FBI, just like Julien had promised.

I read everything I found online about the case. Nick ended up in a coma, in the hospital, and died several days later from complications from the chemical he was injected with.

A week later, Cara was released from the hospital with minimum brain damage except for dizziness and memory issues. I took her on a road trip to New Hampshire, where we stayed at a secluded rental cabin for several weeks. Cara told me about Phil Crain and her dealings with Rich. I pretended to be angry about her never letting me in on the story. But I couldn’t be angry when I was hiding so much more from her.

During those weeks, I scanned the news and crypto blogs daily. There were so many theories about what had really gone down at The Splendors, but none of the bloggers or investigators got the story right. They suspected the Freemasons, the Black Rock corporation, the World Economic Forum. Some proposed Russian KGB involvement, because one of the names mentioned by the reporters was Russian. Probably “Natalia,” courtesy of Phil Crain. Many concluded that this was a government operation, considering the FBI magically uncovered the IxResearch hidden offshore accounts as well as the money from Nick’s Metrix Technologies scam. Most investors got their money back, and the government agencies quickly appropriated the title of the heroes.

A year later, and Nick is still labeled “the evil mastermind” behind the biggest crypto scandal. Phil Crain became a semi-celebrity. I’m sure his acting career will skyrocket now that he’s out of prison.

I put the magazine aside, feeling somewhat triumphant about the cover-up but slightly upset about the fact that I will never get all the answers about Julien.

As I wait for my pastries to be wrapped, I lean on the counter and stare out the window. At the café across the street, a man at a table catches my attention, his familiar face whipping me back in time. Goosebumps cover my skin at the sight of him, though it’s hot in the bakery.

It can’t be…

He’s dressed in the true Santorini fashion—linen pants, white loose button-up over a muscle tank, sunglasses. I would’ve thought he was a hallucination if I didn’t know his mannerism so well, his toned body, confident stance as he gets up, the sharp jaw, the way every movement seems calculated and on point when he tosses money onto the table and starts walking away.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I murmur, not believing my eyes. “Christina, I’ll be right back!” I say to the bakery owner and dart outside.

Maybe this is a mirage. I’ve thought about Julien so much in the last year that my mind might be doing tricks. But I have to make sure. So when I see him turning the corner into a narrow side street, I dart after him.

I find the street empty. I keep walking, peering into the distance, but after a minute or so, I give up, discouraged. Maybe I’ve completely lost my mind.

“Hello, Natalie.”

The soft voice whips me around, and the man in white steps out from behind an archway. He takes off his sunglasses, a smile playing on his tanned face as he takes slow steps toward me.

“Long time no see,” he says in a voice that makes my head spin.

My knees go weak. I try to say something, but the words get stuck. My heart beats so loud that it makes the rest of the world fall away.

“It is you,” I finally manage to say, and despite trying to hold it back, my lips spread into a grin.

* * *

JULIEN

She looks lovely. Sun-kissed skin. Long, loose hair swept over her right shoulder. Jean shorts and a loose white tank, covering a lime-green string bikini top. The sight of her so close to me makes a smile pull at my lips.

I’ve watched her for a year. Mostly on public cameras. Occasionally, on the streets. I was making sure she was safe and had no tail, though, as per my intel, the FBI hadn’t figured out who was the housekeeper mentioned by Phil Crain. All he knew was that her name was “Natalia.” The composite sketch was general at best. So were the ones of the other personnel at The Splendors. Phil took on the Rosenberg role so close to heart that he indeed thought he was above everyone else, including the staff.

This is the closest Natalie and I have been to each other in a year. But this time, when she looks at me, her gray eyes glint with delight.

Am I imagining it?

I study her face for any trace of bitterness, but there’s none. Her full lips slowly spread in a smile, though the tiny vein on her neck pulsates with the speed of hummingbird wings. She’s nervous, though she shouldn’t be.

“It is you,” she says, not hiding her excitement. “I thought I was hallucinating…” A quiet laugh leaves her lips, then she goes quiet for a moment, her eyes roaming my face. “How have you been, Julien?”

I know everything there is to know about her by now. Following her to Greece was intentional. I have a lot to discuss with her, but I start with the basics.

“It’s Luke,” I say, carefully studying her reaction. “My name—it’s Luke.”

“Luke,” she repeats, making something flare up inside me. It’s too early to expect her to trust me, but, damn, the way she says my name is delicious. I want to hear her say it one more time.

“Nice to see you again,” she says. “Luke,” she repeats, as if tasting the sound of it.

“How are you, Natalie?”

She chuckles, the sound of it warm and friendly, though she knows this is just small talk, that this meeting is not a coincidence.

Natalie almost jeopardized our entire operation a year ago. Too nosy, too brazen, too quick-witted—she came in like a storm, an unexpected intruder into our meticulously put together crew. It was a chore to keep an eye on her at all times, making sure she didn’t tip off Nick by accident, didn’t get involved with him or Rosenberg, or get in trouble. Poor Rita—aka Rosalie—tried intimidation, then scare tactics, then a one-on-one talk, then begged us all in tears to fire Natalie before something happened to her too.

At the end of the day, Natalie ruled everything out in the best way possible.

It’s a proven fact that some seemingly unnoticeable things often change history. In science, it’s molecules. In modern warfare, it’s information. In everyday life, it’s the smallest people who can cast the biggest shadows, causing the biggest impact.

A year ago, this courageous woman walked into The Splendors, and everything went haywire—my plan, my calculations, and somewhere, within a span of five days, my vow to never let pretty, smart women get in the way of my work.

But Natalie is a firecracker. She also deserves to know a lot more about what went down at The Splendors.

In time, I will tell her about Rita, whose husband had invested in Nick’s enterprise years ago and had gone bankrupt, losing all their savings. When he found out he had cancer and no money for the treatment, he killed himself.

Will, aka Walter, is my sister Emily’s fiancé and a cybersecurity consultant.

Sagar, Dave, Steve, and the catering crew, all operating under aliases, were the team who had worked hard and for a long time to expose Nick, gain access to the stolen money, and return it to the investors. All of them had suffered at his hands in the past.

Soon, Natalie will learn that the night her friend Cara got in the car with Rosenberg, she called him “Phil,” and Nick did what he did best—getting rid of witnesses. My sister, Emily, was monitoring the hidden cameras at The Splendors and listening in on the conversation through the bug in their car. She located Cara when they left her at the bus stop and made an anonymous 911 call. If she hadn’t, Cara probably wouldn’t have made it.

For a moment, I get lost, gazing at Natalie. Here, on Santorini, she is not an accomplice or liability but just a young woman, almost a stranger, pretty, charming, and someone I’d love to know better. I hope there’s still a chance.

“Why do I have a feeling that running into you is no coincidence?” Natalie asks as she cutely squints at me.

“It’s not.”

I arrived on the island the same day as she and her friend. But I needed to get her alone so I could tell her the reason for this meeting.

“How is Greece treating you?” I ask, starting with a casual question.

“I think you know the answer. As well as who I’m here with and how long I’ve been here.”

She’s right, and I’m glad she’s still in a good mood, no trace of anger in her eyes.

She tips her chin at me. “I’m sure you didn’t come here because you wanted to see me. So?”

“And if I say I did?”

She purses her lips, trying to hide the smile that hasn’t left her lips since she saw me. “Then I’d say I’m flattered. But you aren’t telling me all of it.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Remember the hard drive from the closet? The one you tipped us off about?”

She doesn’t respond, but I know she remembers.

“That turned out to be Nick’s crypto wallet,” I explain.

“ErFi?” she prompts. Good, she knows what I’m talking about. “That stuff is still valuable after everything went down?”

Apparently, she has no idea. “Its value exploded in the last year.”

Her expression changes with realization. “What are you telling me?”

“It’s worth a lot of money.”

“How much money?”

Her lips part as she waits for the answer, her intense gray eyes on me. I hope she doesn’t have a heart attack when she finds out that she’ll soon become a very wealthy woman.

“How much are we talking about?” she repeats impatiently.

I stall, savoring this moment, and she widens her eyes at me. “Stop teasing!”

“A lot,” I answer.

That’s an understatement. The value is a little over forty million, all Nick’s personal stash. Karma is a patient vigilante. In our case, it turned out to be a generous fairy godmother. The money will be split among The Splendors’ crew, including Natalie and Darla’s family. But it’s too early to tell her that. I need to know I can trust her. I hope I can. I want to. For the last year, I couldn’t get this woman out of my mind.

Natalie sets her hand on her hip, and a smile finally breaks free on her lips.

“So, what, you flew to Europe and came to Santorini to tell me that you want to give me money?”

I shrug. “Something like that.”

“You could’ve sent it in an envelope,” she says, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, though her smile doesn’t fade.

Clearly, she’s underestimating what I mean by “a lot.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I say.

“I’ve gathered that you are a complicated guy, Julien.”

“Luke,” I correct her.

“Right, Luke. See?”

I’m smiling. She’s smiling. It’s really cute, and I can’t tear my eyes off her.

“I have to warn you,” I say. “Converting that crypto into cash has to be inconspicuous. It’s a long-term project.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“Not for me, no.”

I swear, her smile is flirty. Plus, standing in the middle of an empty Santorini street with her, early in the morning, feels like a romantic getaway.

“Well,” she says, twirling a strand of her hair around her forefinger—like I said, flirty. “We have to talk it over, don’t we? Would you like to have breakfast together?” She nods in the vague direction of the next street.

My heart skips a beat. “Breakfast?” I grin like a fool.

“Sure.” She chuckles. “We are on vacation, right?”

“Breakfast sounds great,” I say, unable to hide the smile plastered all over my face.

She turns and starts walking, and I follow. For the first time, I let her lead the way. “You know what sounds better?” she asks, smiling over her shoulder at me. “That you don’t seem like you’re about to ditch me for another year.”

I laugh, following her.

This sounds like a possible date with this beautiful, resourceful spy. I’m in.