Bound [+18]

1

ELENA

The books were a fucking disaster. A deliberate, insulting disaster. Marco had either been skimming more than she thought, or he'd panicked and tried to bury his tracks on the way out. It didn't matter. It would soon be dealt with. The problem now was the gaping hole he'd left in her operation. The river of dirty cash flowing through Violet, Elena Alvarez's nightclub, wasn't slowing down, and it needed a new, clean channel to flow into.

Lucius, a broad, handsome bearded man with long, black hair pushed back and her head of security, stood silently by the door of her office overlooking the club floor.

"Any promising leads?" Elena asked, her voice echoing in the large, dark room.

"A few. Most are either too connected to known rivals or too stupid to trust with a lunch order, let alone this." Lucius handed her a tablet. "This one is new. Sofie Gellar. Resume is sharp. Top of her class at Wharton, then a fast track at Ernst & Young. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket."

"A choirboy," Elena murmured, scrolling through the digital file. There was a photo. Blonde hair, freckles across her nose, an open face that looked like it belonged in a university library, not a place like this. "Why is a choirboy looking for a job like this?"

"Says she had a philosophical disagreement with her bosses. Wanted more... creative freedom."

Elena almost smiled. It was a lie, of course. Everyone lied. The question was what the lie was covering. Greed? Desperation? She was too clean. It made Elena's instincts itch.

"Set up an interview," she said, handing the tablet back. "Tomorrow. I want to see if the face matches the file."

Lucius nodded and left. Elena turned back to the window, to the full, throbbing club. She needed someone smart. Someone she could control. This Sofie Gellar looked soft. Malleable. But sometimes the soft-looking ones were the most dangerous. You didn't see the knife until it was already between your ribs.

Either way, she would find out.

A soft knock at the office door broke her concentration a moment later. Lucius leaned back in. "Marco is here to see you, Jefa."

Elena's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Send him in."

The man who entered was the source of the disaster in her books: Marco Di Rossi. The fuck-up accountant she was about to deal with. He wore a silk shirt open at the collar, a heavy gold chain nestled in the graying hair on his chest. His fingers, adorned with rings, tapped a nervous rhythm on the polished surface of her desk.

"Elena, mi querida, you look tense," Marco said, his smile a little too wide, a little too wet. "Business is good, no? The club is packed."

Elena didn't return the smile. She leaned back in her chair, the leather sighing under her weight. She held up a single sheet of paper, a bank statement. "Business is good, Marco. But it seems our friends in Panama are seeing less of it these days. A lot less. Funny how that works."

Marco's tapping stopped. His smile tightened at the edges. "There have been... complications. New regulations. You know how it is."

"I know how it is," Elena repeated, her voice flat. She let the silence stretch, watching a bead of sweat trace a path from his temple down to his jawline. The air in the room grew thick. "I also know that your son just bought a two-million-dollar apartment in Miami. Cash. Complications must pay well."

The pretense evaporated. Marco's face hardened, the affable mask replaced by the cunning rat he'd always been. "You cannot expect undying loyalty when you pay in scraps, girl. Your father... he understands the way things work. A little for you, a little for me. It's business."