Page 94 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“So it’s him,” I say, flat.
“It’s him,” Santiago confirms. “Different tactic, same stink.”
Ivy crosses to the sink, rinses her hands, looks toward the office as if she can feel me looking. She doesn’t smile, not exactly, she softens, and that’s worse for me. Better. Both.
“What about the man at Ivy’s meeting?” I ask.
“I pulled two traffic cams on the block. Angle’s bad, but I’ve got the coat and the posture. No clear face. I’m scraping garage footage. Your doorman didn’t log the courier, new guy on shift. Building’s retraining on protocol.”
“Not morning,” I say. “Tonight.”
A quiet beat. Approval lives there. “Copy.”
“Emma arrives tomorrow,” I add, and the wordtomorrowthreads through the apartment like a wire. “He’s moving pieces to rattle us before she gets here. He doesn’t get to stand near a door she walks through.”
“Already on it. Dedicated driver for airport pickup, shadow car behind. Extra building coverage. Plainclothes post at the lobby desk. Rover on your floor. I’ll text names and photos, everyone is backgrounded.”
“Good.” I look at the note again. Each letter deliberate and exact, like someone tracing the edge of a blade.
Santiago clears his throat. “There’s more. The courier shells and the funding trail, they gave us leverage. We pushed everything to the U.S. Attorney’s office this morning. With Derek already in federal custody, this elevates to witness intimidation. He’s now flagged for enhanced restrictions. He won’t be able to move a cent or make a call without it landing in front of a judge.”
Relief edges against my ribs, sharp but steady. “And the man Ivy saw?”
“Flipped him. Silver watch, scar on his index knuckle. He’ll keep showing up where Derek expects him, but his reports go to us now. Derek’s voice is getting weaker every time he tries to use it.”
I close my eyes for a second, exhaling hard. “Good.”
Santiago’s voice drops lower. “The judge signed the no-contact order an hour ago. No letters, no packages, no middlemen. Derek Wilson’s line to you is cut. Permanently.”
It doesn’t feel like victory, not yet. But it feels like pressure shifting. Like Ivy can breathe easier. Like Emma won’t walk into a house where a ghost rattles the walls.
“He wants you to hear it in your father’s voice,” Santiago says. “Ignore the theater. Focus on the funding.”
“What funding?”
“You’ll love this. Derek’s been moving money into a boutique ‘risk firm’… three principals, all ex-corporate security; two have private military on their bios. Website is euphemisms: ‘extractions,’ ‘pressure resolutions,’ ‘reputation resets.’ Two inbound wires from a Cayman feeder hit their ops account. Dates line up with your last two build delays and a reporter’s odd questions about Ivy.”
Not surprise. Confirmation. “Names.”
“Sending them encrypted. Short version: they sell proximity. They make people feel watched. But without Derek’s money, they’re done.”
I glance past the glass again. Ivy has the oven open. Heat fogs the air and blushes her cheeks. She sways a little to music I can’t hear. I feel it anyway. “Then watch them back,” I say. “Turn on every light you have.”
“Already flipping switches. One more thing, foundation update. Your foreman just sent a progress photo. Mentorship wing’s ahead of schedule. If you want that arts and media section, this is the week to add it before finishes lock.”
My gaze drifts down the hall to the small spare room, our spare room, Emma’s room. A space built for more than just sleep, for her to feel at home. For me to be the man who stands in the doorway and means it. “Do it. Studio wall with power in the rail. Edit bay that locks. No sound bleed into the reading room.”
“I’ll have them rough the conduits by Friday,” he says. “Loop Ivy in?”
“Yes. Everything that isn’t a threat, loop her in. Everything that is, keep her out.”
“That line gets thin real fast,” Santiago warns.
“I’ll keep it sharp.”
He’s quiet a moment, then warmer than usual: “Jack… Emma’s going to walk into a house that looks like you chose it for her. That matters.”
The call ends. I palm the photo frame, not turning it, just feeling the weight. I used to think love was a variable you guarded against. Now it feels like the constant that steadies the math.
