Page 77 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

“The don and his new Russian buddy have this … asshole computer jock working on some top-secret program.” He shakes his head and leans closer. I can smell his sweat and see every fleck in his dark green eyes.

“You ask me,” he continues, “all this tech stuff is stupid. What’s wrong with good old-fashioned paper and pen? You know?”

I nod enthusiastically at him like he’s preaching the gospel. He could say the sky is green and I’d be front and center applauding his bravery for calling it like it is.

“There are parts of the building we can’t even get into because he screwed with our security system. I mean, seriously, he’s not nearly as good as they think and he can’t handle it so he’s taking it out on me.”

Must be Peyton. That’s his typical M.O.

And now, I have a real way in.

“I could help you.” The little bastard rolls his eyes. “Honest to God—I’m kind of a computer jock myself and if you give me your cell, I can make you look like a hero.” He chews his lip, and I go for broke because two minutes ago, my only plan was to flirt with this kid until I could convince him to let me go. I was even prepared to make out with him if I had to.

But now, I’ve struck gold. A new plan is forming as we speak.

“If I give you my phone, you’re not going to try to call anyone?” He has his hand in his pocket. “Promise me.”

I hold up my oath-taking hand and smile. “I swear. I will absolutely not call anyone or email or in any way try to make contact.” I grin. “You’re my contact now.”

The emphasis I put on the word “absolutely” twists his doubts into the wind. Or maybe it was the smile. Or the flirty line at the end. Maybe the fact I raised my hand. I don’t care because he gives me the phone.

It takes me all of twelve seconds to hack the local wireless network and see exactly how far Peyton is in over his head and how easy this is going to be. Without all of us typing away and backing him up while he sits in his cushy office, he can’t keep up.

Turns out the wunderkind’s prodigy status might’ve been a little overhyped.

I bite back a laugh, disguise it behind a curious, “Hmm,” then work my magic.

Thirty seconds later, I’m in the Totti Industries International bank account. The number of zeroes would normally be enough to make my eyeballs pop, but right now, all I want is to go home. I focus even harder.

And just like that, I have twenty-seven million dollars of Italian mafia money burning a whole in my theoretical pocket.

I transfer the funds to an off-shore account it takes two minutes to set up. While my fingers are tapping away, I make the appropriate sounds of confusion and concentration, heming and hawing my way to the biggest payday of my entire life. The money transfers, and I spend a few seconds deleting my history and all evidence of what I’ve done, then I hand the phone back.

After a quick breath for courage, I smile at him. “All finished.”

“You fixed it?”

I’m at a crossroads: to tell the truth or tell a lie?

I take too long to make the decision.

Antoni, suddenly suspicious, stands and yanks a gun from his waistband. “What did you do?” he hisses.

I shrug. Courage isn’t as easy with a gun pointed in the vicinity of my … everything.

“Uh, well, a couple things.”

He jabs the gun against my forehead, and I ignore the panic surging in my stomach. “I wouldn’t do that. Because I just took twenty-seven million dollars of your boss’ money and hid it. If you shoot me, he’s never going to get it back.”

I shrug again like I don’t give two shits, but my stomach is churning. Gullible Antoni is about three seconds from becoming a lackey with hostage vomit on his shoes.

“You fucking bitch! I was nice to you. I bought you a fucking book.” He snatchesFifty Shades—a two-and-a-half-inch-thick paperback that feels like a brick—off the bed and smacks it across my jaw. My head whips to the side, and the pain vibrates from my face down my neck straight to my spine. My eyes water, and I bite my tongue as blood pours from the spot where the corner of the book’s spine caught my cheekbone.

He drops his literary weapon and reaches for his phone again, shaking it at me. “Fix it!” he screeches. “Fix it now!”

He’s shrieking like I maniac and I’m bleeding from the mouth and face, but I don’t care. I already won, and pissed-off, victorious Corinne is one brave chick.

“Fuck you.” I spit a mouthful of blood onto his face. “Tell your boss if he wants his money back, he’ll have to let me go.”

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