Page 78 of Man of the Year

I look at my watch—Rosenberg should be ready by now. I log out of all the computers and check the house cameras on my phone. There are six. I don’t have cameras in the office, library, or any of the bedrooms, as per Phil’s plea for privacy, but I see him already walking downstairs and into the living room.

Good. He can wait.

I take a quick shower and put on my best suit. Yes, I’m a driver, but at important meetings, I serve as Rosenberg’s assistant. Looking sharp is the best representation of a team.

“Looking fine, Eric,” I tell myself in the mirror, fixing my tie. I might stick with Nick for a while. I like that alias, but I miss my actual name, Eric Fisher—hence the name for my crypto, ErFi.

I fix my hair, spray myself with cologne, and put on my Rolex, all the while aware of Natalie tied and locked in the closet. She should have been a red flag from the start. I was hoping to tap that ass at the first opportunity. She’s my type, despite being a little thick in the thighs. Not only did she not put out, but she was rubbing shoulders with the house manager.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Julien. He’s hardworking, dedicated, quiet, with an impressive résumé. And he knows how to kiss ass—brownie points. Let’s hope Natalie didn’t run her mouth and spill anything to Julien or the other staff about what she found out from Rich. Otherwise, I swear, the whole house will be a giant murder scene, and that’s too much work for my liking.

I pick up the keys and pause, listening for any sounds from the closet. There’s nothing. Natalie’s out. When I get back, we’ll have a chat, and then she’ll join the fate of the others who thought they were smarter than me.

Oh, right, the sedative!

I walk up to the chest of drawers and open the top one. There are two rows of syringe cartridges—red and blue. The red ones contain a regular sedative. The blue ones are loaded with a nerve agent that’s only used by the military. In regular doses, it doesn’t kill but turns a person into a vegetable, unless it interferes with other medications, triggers an allergic reaction, affects a weak heart, or shuts down the kidneys—the list of side effects is a mile long. The average effect is severe enough—brain damage, loss of neurological functions, and amnesia. Nice and clean. I don’t like things messy.

I pick up a blue cartridge and put it in my pocket. The meeting this afternoon is important. Coincidentally, it’s probably the last time Phil will need to show his face, so the “blue pill” will come in handy.

SIXTY-ONE

NICK

I wait by the car for Phil to come out.

What’s taking him so long?

Annoyed, I check my watch. My work phone beeps. I have two. One is my “Nick-The-Driver” phone. The other one is Geoffrey Rosenberg’s official number. I can’t trust Phil with handling any type of business conversations. Not even a text. His burner phone is merely for our communications and for his occasional adventures that I monitor closely. At meetings, he leaves his phone in the car. I’m always by his side. If anyone needs anything, his default answer is, “Talk to my assistant. He’ll handle it.” It’s given him a mysterious reputation.

The door opens, and Phil, dressed to a tee, finally walks out of the house. But his sunken face is the opposite of what I need him to project today.

I nod and open the back seat door for him. He doesn’t deserve riding in a Maybach, having a driver, or being treated like this. But, hey, the show must go on.

I close the door behind him and get in the driver’s seat. Impatiently, I drive toward the gate, and as soon as we are out on the road, I let my anger out.

"That little housekeeper knows about you,” I say, sucking my teeth in annoyance. “How?"

In the rearview mirror, I see Phil hang his head. Two days ago, he was spitting out insults in his drunken delirium. Now, his tail is between his legs. This guy is a classic addict.

He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t. Clueless, as always.

"Well, she's dust,” I say. “Because of you."

His eyes, sad and pathetic, meet mine in the rearview mirror. “What do you mean,dust?”

I swear, if I could kill with my stare, he’d be dead in a second. “I mean what I mean. Just like the other ones who got a whiff of your past. She’ll have to disappear.”

I brake at the red light intentionally hard, making him almost bash his face into the front seat.

Right away, his alarmed eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "Jesus Christ! How many more?—”

My anger spikes tenfold, making me see red. Before he finishes, I reach back, grab him by the flaps of his suit jacket, and yank him toward me, making his stupid forehead bang on the front seat.

I let go and fix my suit jacket. "So goddamn irresponsible,” I grit out and gun the engine on green.

"I didn't say anything!” he shouts, leaning forward, the tiny drops of his spit hitting my cheek.

“Oh, youshoutat me now?”

---