Page 52 of Dirty Game
"I don't make him feel?—"
"Girl, that man would burn this entire city down if someone hurt you. You think that's just about a debt?" She shakes her head. "I've worked for Mr. Bane for ten years. Never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you when you're not watching."
"How does he look at me?"
"Like you're salvation and damnation all rolled into one." She pauses at the door. "Give him time. He'll figure it out. Or you'll make him figure it out. Either way, this story isn't over."
But I don't have time to process her words because the penthouse elevator chimes, and someone walks in who immediately makes my skin crawl.
The man is maybe fifty, wearing a suit that costs more than most people make in a year, with silver hair slicked back and eyes like a calculator—always adding, subtracting, finding the profit in everything. He's soft in the way men get when they make their money behind desks instead of with their fists, but there's something sharp about him too, like a knife hidden in silk.
"You must be the payment," he says, looking me up and down with obvious distaste. His gaze lingers on my bare legs, on the way Varrick's shirt hangs loose on my frame. "Though I can't imagine you're worth six million. Even with inflation. Maybe six thousand if you clean up nice and know how to keep your mouth shut. Well, know when to keep it shut and when to open it."
The innuendo is clear, and my stomach turns.
"Jerome." Maria's voice is sharp. "Mr. Bane is in his office."
"I'm not here for him. I'm here for the books. Someone's been making changes to my system." His eyes land on me again, and now I see calculation mixed with the disgust. "Unauthorized changes. Playing with numbers that are beyond their understanding."
I stand straighter, pulling the shirt down as far as it will go.
I know who this is now—Jerome Watts, one of Varrick's business partners and a former accountant.
The one whose "mistakes" I've been finding and correcting for weeks.
The one who's been bleeding the organization dry while thinking he's too smart to get caught.
"You mean the ten million dollars in tax savings I found? Or the four shell companies that were bleeding profits?" I keep my voice steady, professional, even though I'm standing here in nothing but a shirt and underwear.
His face goes red. "Little girls who spread their legs for their uncle's debts shouldn't play with numbers they don't understand. Stick to what you're good at—lying on your back and counting ceiling tiles while real men handle business."
The words hit like a slap, but I don't flinch.
Not anymore.
Something about last night, about the way Varrick touched me like I was precious, has given me strength I didn't know I had.
"I understand that you've been skimming two percent off the top of every international transfer for three years." I pull out my phone from where I left it on the counter, show him the spreadsheet I've been building. "I understand that you've hidden millions of dollars across forty-seven different accounts. I understand that you thought you were too smart to get caught, but you didn't count on someoneactuallychecking your math."
The red drains from his face, leaving him pale as paper.
"That's slander. You can't prove?—"
"The Cayman account opened March 2021, initial deposit of 1.2 million. The Swiss holdings under the name JW Enterprises—reallycreative, by the way. The shell company in Delaware that exists only to funnel money from the Chicago operationsto your personal accounts." I scroll through the data, watching him get paler with each revelation. "Did you really think no one would notice? Or did you just assume Varrick would be too distracted by his new toy to pay attention?"
"You little bitch." He steps toward me, and I step back instinctively, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am, essentially naked except for the shirt. "You think because you're warming his bed, you can make accusations? You're nothing but a payment plan. A hole for him to use until the debt's cleared. Six million dollars for virgin pussy—though I doubt you're even a virgin anymore. Probably spread your legs the first night, eager to please your new owner."
"Actually, she's my forensic accountant." Varrick's voice comes from the doorway, deadly quiet. "And she just saved me the trouble of proving what I've suspected for months."
Jerome spins. "Varrick, you can't possibly believe?—"
"The Cayman account. The Swiss holdings. The shell company in Delaware." Varrick moves into the room with predatory grace, and I notice his eyes track over me—taking in the bare legs, his shirt on my body, the way Jerome has me backed against the counter. Something dangerous flashes in his expression. "She found them all, didn't you, little mouse?"
I nod, my voice stolen by the ice in his tone.
"This is ridiculous. I've been working with you since before you took over after your father. You're going to take the word of some nobody over mine?" Jerome's voice is getting desperate now. "Everyone knows you bought her for her cunt, not her brain. Just because she can spread her legs doesn't mean she can understand the complexity of financial?—"
The sound of impact is wet and sudden.
