Chapter 820
The next morning, Travis Tate stood in my office wearing a suit that was two sizes too small. It looked like he’d raided a high school prom clearance rack.
“Coffee,” I said, not looking up from my laptop, where I was communicating with Liam via an encrypted channel about the Asian markets. “South Side Roasters. Half-caff, oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, exactly sixty-five degrees Celsius.”
Travis stared at me. “Is that a joke? The city is in gridlock. Half the shops are closed.”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?” I asked. “Improvise.”
He gritted his teeth. “Right. On it.”
He spun on his heel and marched out.
As soon as the elevator doors closed, Lucian stepped out from the shadows.
“He’s texting,” Lucian said.
D𝗂𝘀co𝘃𝘦𝘳 𝗁𝗶𝖽𝖽𝘦ո 𝘨еm𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝘨а𝘭𝗻𝗈𝘃e𝗅ѕ.𝖼о𝗺
“Who?”
“Burner number. Encrypted app.”
“Let him,” I said. “Get the car ready. We’re going to pay a visit to his father.”
Forty minutes later, while Travis was presumably arguing with a barista about milk temperature, I was walking through the mahogany doors of the Tate mansion. The place was eerily quiet; the staff had likely walked out when the paychecks bounced.
Thomas Tate was a bulldog of a man—short, thick-necked, and perpetually red-faced. He sat behind a desk that cost more than most people’s houses.
“Ms. Sterling,” he rumbled. “To what do I owe the displeasure? You’re tanking my legacy.”
“I’m correcting the market,” I said, sitting down without being asked. “And I’m here to discuss your son.”
“Travis?” Thomas scoffed. “That boy is dead to me.”
“Funny,” I said. “Because he’s working for me now.”
Thomas froze. His eyes narrowed. “He’s what?”
“My assistant,” I said. “He’s very… enthusiastic.”
Just then, the double doors burst open. Travis ran in, holding a cardboard cup carrier. He was sweating. His suit was disheveled.
“Skye! You weren’t at the office!” He stopped. He saw his father.
The cup carrier slipped from his hand. Four cups of coffee splattered onto the Persian rug.
“Travis,” Thomas said, his voice dangerously quiet. “What are you doing with her?”
“Dad, I—she made me—” Travis stammered. He looked from me to his father, panic radiating off him.
“He’s delivering my coffee,” I said calmly. “Or he was. That’s coming out of your paycheck, Travis.”
I stood and walked over to Thomas. I placed a document on his desk.
“Audit report,” I said. “Seems like Tate Corp has been funneling money into offshore accounts linked to the Blue Phoenix hackers. Or rather, they’ve been using your servers as a relay point.”
Thomas turned pale. “That’s preposterous.”
“Is it?” I tapped the paper. “Travis told me everything.”
I lied. Travis hadn’t said a word about that. Skye’s intuition and Liam’s data mining had filled in the blanks. But I needed to see their reaction.
Travis’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t! I swear!”
Thomas looked at his son with pure hatred. “You traitorous little rat.”
“I didn’t!” Travis screamed.
“We’ll be in touch,” I said, stepping over the puddle of coffee. “Come on, Travis. You have a mess to clean up back at the office. And bring the server access codes.”
I walked out. Travis scrambled after me, looking like a puppy that had just been kicked.
In the car, Travis was hyperventilating. “You set me up! He thinks I snitched!”
“Did you?” I asked.
“No!”
“Well,” I shrugged, “now you have nowhere else to go. You belong to me, Travis. Don’t forget it.”
He stared at me, fear and loathing warring in his eyes. He realized he was trapped—caught between his father’s wrath and the Blue Phoenix’s vengeance.