Page 52 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

"Stop bouncing your leg."

Misha's command came through clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving the financial magazine in his lap.

I responded by bouncing harder, the expensive wool pants War had forced on me scraping my thighs raw with each twitch.

Not the sharp, clean burn of a needle, but enough friction to keep the real cravings at bay.

"Fuck you," I muttered.

"Later," Misha promised without looking up.

"I fucking hope so. This place makes my skin crawl." I needed a scalding shower and Misha's hands everywhere to wash away the stench of corporate power. "Nothing like bathing in blood money to make you feel dirty."

And it did. Meridian BioSystems' lobby of glass and steel pressed down on us like an operating theater where the patient was already dead. It’d been four days since Wright died, and now we sat in the heart of the corporate beast that had fed him.

Boston's financial district glared through floor-to-ceiling windows, a city built on blood money judging us for spilling a little ourselves.

The place reeked of privilege.

Misha sat beside me on a sleek leather couch, legs crossed at the ankle, not a wrinkle in his charcoal suit. Perfectly composed. Perfectly lethal.

"Your knee," he murmured, not looking up from the magazine in his lap. "Control it."

"I can't." I hooked a finger under the silk tie, yanking it looser. The damn thing dug red trenches into my neck, a collar for a dog I'd never be.

Misha's hand landed on my thigh, nails digging through expensive wool. "Find another outlet."

My cock twitched at the bite of pain. I'd traded one addiction for another. Fentanyl had given way to the precise violence of Misha's hands, his teeth, the calculated brutality he promised with every touch.

We'd walked in carrying fake credentials and real intent, Misha handing the secretary a business card for the shell company Nikita had created overnight. Victoria Nash, CEO of Meridian BioSystems, had no idea the appointment on her calendar wasn't with investors but executioners.

A woman in a tailored skirt suit strode toward us from the elevator bank, heels clicking against marble, tablet held firmly. "Ms. Nash will see you now. This way, gentlemen."

Misha stood and buttoned his jacket. I followed, yanking at my tie.

The executive elevator whisked us upward, numbers climbing toward the top floor. Misha's fingers brushed against my arm, a gentle touch where track marks still marred my skin.

Heat surged through me at his touch, my body confusing danger and desire like it always did.

The doors opened onto a reception area larger than my parents' entire house.

"Right this way." The assistant led us through double doors into an office that belonged on the glossy pages of magazines I'd once used to keep warm on winter nights.

Victoria Nash stood behind a desk big enough to perform surgery on.

Late fifties, silver-streaked hair cut in a severe bob, skin pulled tight by expensive procedures that hadn't quite defeated gravity.

Her gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes reminded me of long-term stimulant users, though hers came from corporate stress rather than street drugs.

Tall windows framed her like a portrait, with the Boston skyline as a backdrop for her power.

Her navy blue suit with subtle pinstripes screamed old money and calculated intimidation.

Her fingernails caught my attention immediately.

Perfect oval manicure in bloodless nude, each nail identical to the next.

I'd held enough OD victims with broken, dirt-encrusted nails to know what those pristine cuticles represented: a life untouched by physical labor or hardship.

Someone who'd never dug through trash for a meal or scraped ice from a windshield for pocket change.

Someone who'd never known real hunger or true desperation.

"Gentlemen." Her smile hit her mouth but died before reaching her eyes. "Meridian appreciates your interest in our pharmaceutical development program."

Misha stepped forward, hand extended. Nash shook it, and triumph flashed across his face when her eyes widened slightly. She hadn't expected him to be so handsome. So polished. So dangerous beneath the veneer.

"Thank you for meeting us on such short notice," Misha said. "Your reputation precedes you."

"As does yours, Mr. Deschamps." Nash's smile tightened fractionally. "Your venture capital firm's interest in our pharmaceutical pipeline is quite flattering."

Nikita's connections had built us a backstory solid enough to get through the door. French venture capitalists looking for pharmaceutical investment opportunities in North America. Money spoke every language.

"Please, sit." Nash gestured to leather chairs so plush they'd swallow a person whole. "Coffee? Water?"

"No, thank you," Misha replied, unbuttoning his jacket as he sat.

I followed his lead, spine straight, chin up. Xander had coached me for hours on how to move in this world, how to inhabit the skin of someone who belonged in rooms where decisions about life and death were made over coffee.

The assistant disappeared, closing the doors behind her with a soft click that sounded like a gun being cocked.

Silence stretched between us. Nash maintained her corporate smile, waiting for us to state our business. Misha let the moment stretch until the silence itself became a weapon.

"Dr. Wright sends his regards," Misha said finally.

A muscle twitched along Nash's jaw, her smile freezing in place. Her fingers tapped once on the desk before going still, as if her control had hairline fractures already forming.

"I'm afraid I don't know who—"

Misha's transformation happened in an instant. The polished businessman vanished, replaced by something cold and predatory. His spine straightened, shoulders squared as he leaned forward. The movement was subtle but unmistakable. A cobra preparing to strike.

"Elliot Wright. Your lead researcher for human trials in six states." His accent thickened with each word, vowels curling, menacing. "The man whose signature appears on twenty-seven death certificates."

Nash's hand moved toward her desk phone. "I think there's been a mistake—"

"I wouldn't," Misha said coldly. "Your security team is three floors down. They won't reach you in time."

Her hand stilled.

"We've come a long way," Misha continued. "It would be rude to cut our meeting short."

My blood rushed southward so fast the room tilted. Misha, cold and calculating, made me hard in a way that matched what fentanyl once did.

"I'm not sure what this is about," Nash said, steady despite the slight pallor creeping into her face. "But if you have concerns about Meridian's research protocols, our legal department would be happy to address them."

She opened a desk drawer, pulling out a prescription bottle.

My eyes locked onto the small white pills as she shook one into her palm.

Familiar shape. Familiar size. My mouth went dry as she swallowed it with water.

Something for anxiety, probably. Something that would take the edge off. My fingers twitched.

Misha reached into his pocket, removing a small digital recorder. He placed it on Nash's desk and pressed play.

Wright's voice filled the room.

"The network spans six primary locations with dozens of satellite operations. Each site targets specific demographic vulnerabilities for optimal subject recruitment."

Nash blinked rapidly. "You're bluffing," she said, her voice weak.

"The eastern Kentucky operation focuses on former mining families—pre-existing respiratory conditions provide excellent camouflage for adverse pulmonary reactions."

Nash stiffened as Wright's confession continued.

Recognition crossed her features first, then fear, before settling into something colder.

She glanced toward her phone, then the door, her jaw tight.

The same expression every overdose patient wore when caught by hospital security.

Pure arrogance from someone who had never been hunted.

"Victoria Nash identified healthcare deserts and vulnerable populations across rural America."

Misha clicked off the recording. "We have the complete confession. Dr. Wright was very... forthcoming once we explained the alternatives."

She folded her hands on top of the desk. “All right, boys. Name your price.”

“This isn’t about money,” Misha said. “We want you to shut it down. All of it. Immediately.”

Her eyes danced between us before she leaned back in her chair.

"Impressive work. But you've underestimated the scope of what you're trying to dismantle.

These trials represent billions of dollars in research investment across multiple corporate entities.

The regulatory approvals alone took years to obtain. "

She gestured toward the city beyond her windows. "Do you have any idea how many people's careers depend on this research? How many federal contracts would be violated? I'd be facing congressional hearings, SEC investigations, shareholder lawsuits..."

Her hand moved toward her desk drawer, withdrawing a tablet. "You're asking me to destroy infrastructure that spans six states, involves dozens of regulatory bodies, and affects thousands of jobs. The bureaucratic nightmare alone would take years to unravel."

"That sounds like a you problem," Misha said coldly.

Nash's mask finally slipped completely. "You're asking me to commit professional suicide. My husband's political career, my board positions, my reputation. Everything I've built would be destroyed."

"Better than literal suicide," I replied. "Which is what you'll face if these trials continue."

Her composure cracked further as the weight of our threat settled in. No bureaucracy could protect her from the kind of justice we'd delivered to Wright.

The offer of bribery died on her lips as she realized we weren't interested in joining her system. We were there to dismantle it completely.

"Where is Elliot?" Nash asked, voice tight.