It didn’t contain earth-shattering business secrets like everyone thought. But it had contained something personal that I’d never share.
He examined me over the top of his glass. “Why do you still care so much about it? You got what you needed from it, and you found your traitor. Just burn the damn thing. After I sell it back to you,” he added. “For appearances’ sake.”
“I have my reasons.”
One, to be exact, but he wouldn’t believe me if I told him.
I couldn’t bear to destroy the painting. It was too embedded in the jagged pieces of my past.
I wasn’t a sentimental person, but there were two areas of my life where my usual pragmatism didn’t apply: Stella and Magda.
Unfortunately for Axel, the ex-employee who’d stolen Magda and pawned it off to Sentinel, my biggest fucking competitor, he hadn’t fallen into the exceptions category.
He’d thought the painting contained highly classified, and therefore highly lucrative, business secrets because that was what I told the few people I’d entrusted to guard it.
Little had they known the painting’s value stemmed from something far more personal and far less useful to them.
I’d dispatched of Axel, waited an appropriate length of time for Sentinel to relax, then fucked with their cyber system enough that it’d wiped millions off their value. Not enough to destroy them, since something of that magnitude could be traced back to me, but enough to send a message.
The idiots running Sentinel were so dense they tried to steal the painting back after they sold it because they thought they could use it as retaliation against me.
They hadn’t found any business secrets in Magda, but they knew it was important to me. They were on the right track; I’d give them that. But they should’ve hired someone other than a second-rate Ohio gang member to do the job.
Sentinel’s attempt to cover up their tracks was so shoddy it was almost insulting.
Now the painting was in Dante’s care, which served a double purpose: I didn’t have to look at it, and no one, not even Sentinel, would dare try and steal from him.
The last person who’d tried ended up in a three-month coma with two missing fingers, a mangled face, and crushed ribs.
Dante made an impatient noise, but he was smart enough not to press further.
“Fine, but I’m not keeping it forever. It’s ruining my reputation as a collector,” he grumbled.
“Everyone thinks it’s a rare piece of eighteenth-century art. You’re fine,” I said dryly.
In reality, the painting had existed for less than two decades.
It was amazing how easy it was to forge “priceless” art and documentation attesting to its authenticity.
“I’ll go blind from looking at that monstrosity every day.” Dante rubbed a thumb across his bottom lip. “Speaking of monstrosities, Madigan was officially booted from Valhalla this morning.”
The atmosphere shifted with the weight of the new topic.
“Good riddance.”
I had no love lost for the oil tycoon currently being sued by half a dozen ex-employees for sexual harassment and assault.
Madigan had always been a slimeball. This was just the first time he’d been held accountable.
The Valhalla Club prided itself on its exclusive, invite-only memberships for the world’s wealthiest and most powerful. A good number of those members, including myself, engaged in less than legal activities.
But even the club had its limits, and it certainly didn’t want to get dragged into the media circus surrounding Madigan’s trial.
I was only surprised they hadn’t exiled him earlier.
Dante and I discussed the trial and business for a while until he excused himself to take a call.
As the CEO of the Russo Group, a luxury goods conglomerate that encompassed over three dozen fashion, beauty, and lifestyle brands, he spent half his waking hours on business calls.
In the absence of conversation, my mind drifted toward a certain brunette.
If my thoughts were chaos, she was my anchor.
They always went back to her.
The memory of her walking down the snow-covered street, her hair tossed wild by the wind and her eyes shining like jade, lingered in my brain. The warmth of her, like a ray of sunshine peeking out after a storm, lingered everywhere else.
I shouldn’t have lowered her rent when she came to see the building, and I damn well shouldn’t have let her keep the rent after Jules moved out. In exchange for taking care of my fucking plants, no less, because a selfless concession on my part would’ve been too suspicious.
I didn’t give a shit about those plants. They were only there because my interior designer insisted they “rounded out the apartment.” But I knew Stella loved plants, and it was better than asking her to file my papers.
Living in the same building as her was the worst kind of distraction, and I had no one except myself to blame.
Twin flames of resentment and frustration burned in my chest. I was weak for Stella Alonso, and I hated it.
I pulled out my phone and almost tapped into a certain social media app before I caught myself. I entered the code for my encrypted mobile network instead.
It wasn’t as powerful as the one that resided on my laptop, but it got the job done in a pinch.
My frustration needed an outlet, and today, John Madigan was the lucky target. I couldn’t think of anyone more deserving.
I pulled up a list of his devices. Phones, computers, even his smart fridge and Bluetooth-enabled alarm clock, plus all their associated accounts.
It took me less than five minutes to find what I was looking for—a video he’d stupidly taken of himself forcing a blowjob on his assistant, and a series of disgusting messages he sent one of his golf buddies after the fact.
I forwarded those to the prosecution using the golf buddy’s email. If they were halfway decent at their job, they could convince the judge it was admissible evidence.
The messages also went to key media outlets, because why not?
Then, just because Madigan’s face annoyed me, I swapped his most valuable stocks for junk ones and donated a significant chunk of his cash to anti-sexual violence organizations.
Tension released from my muscles with each tap of a button.
Cyber sabotage was better than a deep tissue massage.
I pocketed my phone right as Dante reentered the library.
“I have to go back to New York.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch, his face stamped with irritation. “There’s a…personal matter I need to deal with.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said mildly. “I’ll walk you out.”
I waited until he was halfway out the door before I added, “The personal matter wouldn’t happen to be Vivian’s ex-boyfriend showing up at your house, would it?”
Surprise coasted through his eyes, followed by fury. “What the fuck did you do, Harper?”
“I merely facilitated a reunion between your fiancée and an old friend.” One little text from “Vivian,” and the ex came running. Pathetic, yet useful. “Since you enjoyed fucking with me so much, I figured I’d return the favor. Oh, and Dante?” I paused with my hand on the knob. Dante’s anger was a pulsing force in the hall, but he’d get over it. He should’ve known better than to put on that little show in the lobby. “Touch Stella again, and you’ll no longer have a fiancée.”