Page 18 of They All Own Me

The screen stares back at me, mocking my incompetence. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I grab my burner phone and dial the number I was given.

"D speaking," Dominic's deep voice resonates through the speaker.

"Hey buddy, so hypothetically, if someone needed to copy files from a computer..."

"You don't know how to do this, do you Tatum?"

I tap my manicured nails against the desk. "Listen, my skill set includes organizing charity galas and picking out the perfect wine for dinner parties. Computer espionage wasn't covered in trophy wife training."

"Jesus Christ." The exasperation in his voice is clear. "What kind of spy doesn't know how to copy a hard drive?"

"The kind that spends her days making meatloaf and getting her roots touched up." I glance at the computer screen. "Look, are you going to help me or should I just start randomly clicking shit?"

"Don't touch anything." He sighs. "Plug in the drive and I'll walk you through it."

"Now that's more like it." I insert the flash drive, watching the little light blink. "Okay, what's next, tech wizard?"

"Click the start menu-"

"The what now?"

"The Windows icon. Bottom left corner."

"Oh. That thing." I click it, squinting at the screen. "You know, this would be easier if you were here doing this yourself."

"Yeah, because a six-foot-eight tattooed guy walking into a senator's house during daylight wouldn't raise any red flags."

"Fair point. Now what?"

Following Dominic's instructions, I navigate through folders and files, my heartbeat quickening with each click. The loading bar creeps across the screen at a snail's pace.

"This is taking forever," I whisper into the phone.

"You got somewhere better to be, princess?"

Princess? I had no idea a pet name spoken by a mobster would make me swoon a little bit.

"Yeah, actually. Like making Thomas's dinner and ironing his socks and underwear like a good little wife."

"Who the fuck irons their underwear…. You know what… never mind."

His low chuckle comes through the speaker. "Once this is done, meet me at Murphy's Bar on 42nd Street. seven o'clock."

My stomach tightens. "Yeah, that's not happening. Thomas keeps tabs on me like a prison guard. He told me not to wait up tonight, but there's no telling when he might show up. And if I'm not here… he may call you to actually come kidnap me."

"Already handled. Your dear husband's gonna have some car trouble tonight. Flat tire, dead battery - you know, the works."

"And how exactly is that gonna-"

"Don't worry you're pretty little head. We've got people for that." His voice drops lower. "Forget the details. Just be there."

The progress bar finally hits 100%. "Done. Now what?"

"Remove the drive properly - don't just yank it out."

"I'm not completely hopeless." I safely eject the drive, thanks high school computer class. "You know, for a scary mobster, you're surprisingly patient with tech support."

I twirl the flash drive between my fingers, smirking at the phone. "You guys should really put an ad in the yellow pages. Need help screwing over your corrupt politician husband? Call your friendly neighborhood mob enforcer for all your tech support needs.'"

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