POV: Victor Lang
The city lights flickered across my penthouse's glass walls, a restless pulse matching the one in my veins. My burner phone buzzed on the obsidian desk, Frankie's update: Vasquez is back at the mansion. Kane's driving. Want us to move? I smirked, swirling the scotch in my glass. Not yet. Let Alexander think he'd won this round, bringing his little spitfire home after she'd fled. Elena Vasquez was a live wire, and I'd rigged the circuit to blow.
I leaned over my laptop, the encrypted files glowing like a map to Kane's ruin. His merger docs, hacked last week by my tech guy, laid bare every clause, every contingency. But the bet was sweeter: three months to make her love him, or the deal was mine. She'd seen the email, shattered the glass at the gala, and still, he'd chased her to Brooklyn like a lovesick fool. Pathetic, and perfect. Love makes men sloppy. Kane was bleeding now, and I'd carve deeper.
Another ping. A photo from my mole in Kane's staff: James, the butler, greedy for my cash. Elena and Alexander, pulling through the mansion gates, her face a storm, his, a mask of desperation. I zoomed in on her eyes: fire, yes, but fear too. Good. Fear was leverage. I typed back: Tail them inside. Cameras on. Anything she touches, I want.
My real phone rang, Frankie again, his rasp like gravel in my ear. "Lang, the girl's family's at her aunt's in Queens. Kid brother's sniffing around my guys. Want me to shut him up?"
I paused, the scotch burning my throat. Marco Vasquez, sixteen, all attitude and no sense. He'd been asking questions at the old restaurant site, digging into the loan that sank La Isla Dorada. Too close. "Scare him," I said, voice low. "Nothing permanent. A message. Make it clear Elena pays if he doesn't back off."
Frankie grunted. "And the mom?"
"Sofia's collateral. Keep her breathing, but remind Elena what's at stake." I hung up, my pulse steady. The Vasquez family was my chessboard, every move calculated. I'd funneled Frankie their loan years ago, knowing they'd default, knowing it'd break them. Kane's software had exposed my father's crimes, sent him to rot. This was payback: slow, surgical, personal.
I opened another file: Kane's security feeds, live from the mansion. My mole had looped me in weeks ago, before the bet even started. The study camera caught Elena storming in, Alexander trailing like a shadow. She dropped her duffel, spun on him, her voice sharp even through the muted feed. I turned up the volume, leaning closer.
"You said you'd prove Victor's tied to Frankie," she snapped, her hands clenched. "Start talking, or I'm out that door again."
Kane's jaw tightened, his eyes locked on her like she was oxygen. "I'm working on it. My team's digging into Lang's accounts. Offshore, encrypted. But he's not careful. He'll slip."
"Slip?" She laughed, cold and cutting. "My family's getting threats now. Frankie called me at the gala, knew I was with you. How's that possible, Alexander? Unless someone's feeding him."
His face paled, just a flicker, but I caught it. Smart girl. She was closer to the truth than he wanted. I smirked, texting my mole: Plant the drive tonight. Study drawer. Make it look like Kane's.
The drive held fake emails; Kane "ordering" Frankie to pressure Elena's family, tying him to her ruin. She'd find it, trust him less, and I'd watch him burn. But I needed more. I pulled up another feed: the mansion's perimeter cameras. A shadow moved near the cliffs, too quick for Kane's security to flag. My shadow. A pro I'd hired to rattle them, keep Elena jumpy. Tonight, he'd leave a gift; a note on her car, blood-red ink: You can't trust him. Run.
I stood, pacing to the window. Kane thought he could protect her, dig into my deals, outsmart me. He didn't know I'd been watching his parents' crash twelve years ago, the one he called "suspicious." I'd buried the evidence, but I had copies. If he pushed too hard, I'd leak them; make him question everything. Elena was the key, but the crash was my ace.
My burner buzzed again. Frankie: Message sent to the brother. He's spooked. Mom's next. I nodded to myself. Perfect. Elena would feel the walls closing in, turn to Kane out of fear, then find the drive and shatter. He'd lose her, the merger, his empire.
The mansion feed flickered: Elena storming out of the study, Kane reaching for her, stopping short. Her door slammed. He stood there, head bowed, fists clenched. I laughed, low and sharp. He was falling, hard, and I'd make sure she broke him.
But then the perimeter feed glitched. A figure, closer now, near the guest wing. Not my guy. Too tall, too deliberate. My pulse spiked. Who the hell was that? I zoomed in, but the face was shadowed, a hood obscuring details. The figure slipped a small package under Elena's balcony door, then vanished into the night.
I froze, scotch glass halfway to my lips. This wasn't my play. Someone else was in the game, and they were moving on my board. Kane? No, he was inside, clueless. Frankie? Too crude. My fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up the package's image. A black box, no markings, but a faint red glow pulsed from within. A device? A bomb? My blood ran cold.
I texted my mole: Check the package. NOW. Don't let them see. Then to my shadow: Who's on the cliff? Report. No response. The feed went black, all mansion cameras dead. My screen blinked: Connection lost.
"Fuck," I hissed, slamming the laptop shut. Someone had hacked my hack, cut me out. Kane's team? Or this new player? My phone buzzed; an unknown number. A single text: You're not the only one playing, Lang. Back off, or she dies.
My grip tightened, the glass cracking in my hand. Blood trickled, but I barely felt it. Elena was in the crosshairs, and I didn't know who was pulling the trigger. Kane was distracted, Elena was vulnerable, and the game just got lethal. I'd started this to ruin him, but now? Someone wanted us all to burn.
I grabbed my coat, barking at my driver. "Hamptons. Now." I needed eyes on that package, on Elena, on whatever the hell was crawling out of the shadows. The bet was child's play now. This was survival, and I'd be damned if I lost control.