One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(15)
“Dom, you’ve known me since fucking high school. You know I’m loyal. Tell me what to do to make things right.”
Fisting the collar of his overpriced T-shirt, I slam him against Tyler’s truck to ensure he hears me. Tyler objects with an “easy, man,” as I glare at Fatty, whose mouth is gaping because I’ve never been this aggressive with him—never had to be.
“What I need is someone who can follow orders to the fucking letter without putting my entire goddamn family in jeopardy. Do you have any idea how hard we’ve worked to get to this point? Don’t open your fucking mouth, Fatty. That question was rhetorical. The answer is no, you fucking don’t. You wouldn’t know anything about that, about real purpose, because all you’ve ever lived up to is your nickname . . . a fucking stoner who has no concept of real responsibility. You think this is a negotiation? It’s not. Everyone was counting on you. But you got cocky because, unlike the rest of us, this is just a hobby for you, rich boy. So, what can you do? You can remember I have your father’s fortune, your mother’s pension, and your baby sister’s college fund in the palm of my fucking hand.”
Fatty sags in my grip against Tyler’s truck. “You don’t have to threaten me, Dom. I won’t say shit. I know I fucked up. This is on me.”
I slam him back into the truck again. “You were saying?”
He swallows, and his eyes flare with the entitled anger I expect from so many like him, but he does the smart thing and keeps that shit close to his chest.
“You’re right. Threats aren’t necessary, are they, Jonathan Daniel George? So later, when that buzz lifts and you reach for your teddy bear tonight, remember I have your DNA and can use it to ruin your fucking life in a real way.” Releasing him, I hold his gaze. “Don’t forget. We silence bitter baby birds that never make it out of the nest. It would be in your best interest not to smoke that truth out of your memory. Get the fuck away from us and stay away.”
Sean speaks up to console Fatty as he pulls out his keys. “That was fucking stupid, man. You were so close.”
Fatty’s reply has me perking up as he opens Tyler’s passenger door. “It wasn’t like that. She messaged me.”
I thought as much, and now I have more work to do. Another undertaking to add to my list and, more importantly, a rogue bird to hunt.
Sipping my morning brew, I eye the Nasdaq feed scrolling at the bottom of my third screen. Satisfied with our portfolio’s progress, I type in my last few commands on a new program I designed and fire it off. In seconds, a symphony of characters begins to populate in green across my second monitor. Grin spreading at the sight of it, I mentally pat myself on the back. In the last few hours—due to some digging on our crate discovery—I unintentionally ensnared a local fly whose vibration landed heavily on my web. This had me following him into a chatroom where he made an inquiry. From there, I located his IP address and sent an update for his VPN program. Within a minute, the fly clicked on the bait that I had disguised in the software he believes keeps his web activity hidden but, in reality, gives me access to every single fucking click and command he’s ever made.
Homeland Security is a myth. We aren’t protected, we’re wired, and our behaviors are observed and collected as data to help orchestrate the strategy on how best to manipulate the masses.
The scariest part? It’s fucking working.
It’s no longer necessary for the CIA to run government experiments using hallucinogens to practice mind control. All they have to do in the present is invent trapdoors within the global technology used by the masses in the day-to-day.
Ironically, the one thing we need protection from is any side of government we ourselves are electing to power.
Suspicions confirmed after a few minutes of digging and observation, I decide to monitor this fly closely in the coming weeks—which only adds to my growing task list of things to be dealt with sooner than later. Interference at this point isn’t possible due to the ever-increasing list I’m compiling by the day regarding the club and my plans for our future targets. But when the premonition hits hard again, I decide this particular fly will have to take priority at some point.
I log out after tapping into the fly’s bank account to alert me when any bulk purchases are made, or any large sums are withdrawn.
My main priority for the moment is to help Tyler uncover Roman’s motivation to lure Cecelia here.
A change of heart regarding the relationship with his only heir doesn’t seem likely, nor does his regard for her financial future since he’s allowed her to live impoverished her whole fucking life. Her forgiveness or desire for any relationship seems unlikely after so many years apart.
Then there’s the psychology on Roman’s side.
The first factor being his age. Aging men with icy hearts tend to start thawing when reminders of mortality begin to loom. His regret regarding his only child could be the key.
Tyler and I have hashed out this logic in the weeks Cecelia has been here and remain skeptical. Especially since Roman’s still relatively young and hasn’t had any recent health scares.
And for an arrogant, callous, selfish fuck like Roman, I’m not convinced his motive has anything at all to do with Cecelia. Neither is Tyler.
There’s more to this.
Something vital we’re missing and have been missing. This is why we’re hellbent on making sure the picture we’ve been painting by numbers over the years to reflect an accurate representation of Roman isn’t off by a single digit.