Page 36 of Scarlet Angel

“We’ve got one dog. It’s useless. Horses, goats, and god knows what else are back at the stable.” I offer a hand. “Welcome.”

As Nigel takes my hand, the gentleman’s gaze roams beyond me over the hall. It’s a rather rundown country house. I should probably do a bit more to it, but I bought it furnished and don’t aim to be one of those nouveau riche with a need to trend chase.

As I take Tristan’s hand, Nigel steps to Scarlet.

She’s a resource, in his eyes, an asset. My muscles stiffen, and I can’t break my line of sight on Nigel.

“Scarlet Gagliano,” she says, voice feminine yet gravely serious.

“And how will you be introducing yourself today?” I ask Tristan. He’s just released my hand and stands quite close. Nigel stands next to Scarlet.

“Tristan,” he says to both me and Scarlet.

“Well then, Tristan and Nigel, let’s get it done. Shall we convene in my study? If it was a warmer day, we could sit on the terrace?—”

“It’s nasty,” Nigel says. “Quite dreary.”

He won’t hear an argument from me. It’s both nippy and cloudy, one of those days that feels like rain, but there won’t be any.

I lead them down the corridor to my study. The plan is for Scarlet to take them through the documentation. I printed a few pages, and some, because of the complexities of spreadsheets and applications, remain online. I had a tech employee mirror the information on a secure private portal and encouraged Scarlet to delete her files.

I might think of the Lupi Grigi as modern-day thugs, but the truth is the mafia and cartels are some of the most technically sophisticated organizations on the planet. That her uncle left it to his niece to perform data entry that could do him in speaks to his place in an older generation that underestimates women and doesn’t accurately estimate his risks.

She positions herself at the location we prepared for her. I’ve set her up at a circular table close to the fireplace, away from the windows, and Nigel and Tristan position themselves at each side.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring an accounting expert with you,” I say as I study my Interpol contact and his boss.

Tristan’s group skirts laws by gathering intel while undercover. Nigel manages that group, among other things, since officially that little covert, lawbreaking group doesn’t exist.

“Accounting’s my background, actually,” Nigel says, swapping his sunglasses for silver-rimmed spectacles. He smiles, exposing a gap between his two front teeth that instantly abuses any notion he might be a danger. “Quite love it. Don’t get to dig in too often.”

Accounting is how they catch criminals these days. They might gain intel from surveillance, but it’s the accounting that lands the strategists behind bars.

I’ve waded through it all already and excuse myself under the guise of attending to business.

On my own, I wander back to the front of the house. A couple of crows fly over the front lawn and dip into the tree line. I flip on my mobile and check the video feed. All’s quiet. Nothing notable.

Dorian has yet to follow up with dear old dad’s missive. Ash confirmed he met with a broker who specializes in the Middle East. Given governments are among his biggest clients for his satellite services, the meeting appears legit.

I could reach out to him now. If he’s back in the States, his day is probably just getting going. I could catch up on emails. But instead, I watch the video feed flashing shots of the property perimeter. There’s a downed tree on one angle, and I’ve just shot off a message to groundskeeping when a door creaks.

Tristan rounds the corner.

“Roaming the house?” I ask.

“Searching for you.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Nigel’s the accountant. Not me.”

“And I’m your asset.” There’s no way he doesn’t pick up on my condescension. “Care for a drink?”

“It’s not quite noon.”

“And?”

“Certainly,” he says, but he glances back over his shoulder at the closed door of the study. “My question for you is quite quick.”

“Shoot.”

“Leo filled us in on significant purchases. Are you planning to do the same?”

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