Disgraced Heir Returns

9: STRATEGIST

The paper burned in Damian's pocket all night.

Not literally. But he felt it, like a flame burning through his trousers. Every time he moved, the folded edges pressed against his thigh. Every time he breathed, he remembered the names.

He sat up. The cell was pitch black. Cutter snored across from him, slow and heavy like a dying animal.

Damian pulled the book from under his pillow. Greg's book. Victor Hartwell's entire criminal empire, laid out in black and white. Hundreds of pages. Thousands of names. Shell companies. Offshore accounts. Bribes. Laundered money. Every dirty transaction recorded.

He flipped to the dog-eared page.

Marcus Webb. Victor's financial controller. A small accounting firm in a country with lax banking laws. Clean on the surface. Dirty underneath. The hub where all of Victor's money converged.

Damian pressed his thumb against the name.

Everyone has a secret, and he was going to find out what Webb's secret was.

He closed the book. Closed his eyes. Going through what he had just read, till the pieces started clicking together in his head. Victor's schedule. His routines. His weaknesses. Greg had given him everything—his meetings, his contacts, his habits. Victor was a creature of routine. Same breakfast. Same route to work. Same meetings at the same time.

A man of habit is a man who can be predicted.

And Victor had a mistress. A woman he visited every Thursday night. A secret apartment in a wealthy part of the city. A place that was meant  to be left unknown.

A man with secrets is a man with vulnerabilities.

Before dawn, Damian shoved the book back under his pillow. Lay down. Stared at the ceiling.

Cutter shifted on his bunk. "You didn't sleep."

It didn’t sound like a question.

Damian didn't turn his head. "How do you know?"

"Your breathing's different." Cutter's voice was low, rough. "People who are planning something breathe different."

Damian was quiet for a moment. Weighing his options "Victor Hartwell," he said slowly, "put me in here."

Cutter didn't respond.

"He destroyed my company. My reputation. My family. He tried to have me killed."

Cutter snorted. "Lot of people want revenge in here."

"I'm different."

"Different how?"

Damian finally turned his head. He couldn't see Cutter's face in the dark. Just the outline of his shoulders.

"I've got patience."

Cutter didn't answer. But Damian could feel him smiling.

____

Work detail. The laundry room.

Steam clouded everything. The machines roared like living things, churning and pounding. Damian shoved wet sheets into a roller, his fingers pale and pruned from the hot water.

A small man worked beside him. Folded shirts faster than Damian could track. Santos. Former money launderer. Cutter had mentioned him, in a casual conversation.

Damian moved closer.

"Fast hands."

Santos didn't look up. "Fast hands keep you alive in here."

"What did you do before?"

Santos's hands paused for half a second. Then kept folding. "Why you asking?"

"Because I want to learn."

Santos finally looked at him. His eyes were sharp, calculating. Weighing Damian like he was measuring a risk.

"Learn what?"

"How to make money disappear."

Santos stared at him. The machines roared. Steam blurred the air between them.

"Lights out. One hour. Third stall."

He turned and walked away.

Damian went back to shoving sheets into the roller. His hands were shaking. But he didn't stop.

____

Night Time. An hour after lights out.

Damian slipped into the bathroom. The third stall was cracked open. He pushed inside, locked the door behind him.

Santos was already there. Sitting on the toilet lid like it was a throne. A ghost in the dark.

"You got nerve."

"I've got nothing left to lose."

Santos pulled a stub of pencil and a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He started drawing. Lines. Arrows. Circles. A financial maze.

"Victor's money goes in here." He tapped a circle. "Then through here, here, and here." His pencil traced the arrows. "Lands here at the end."

He looked up at Damian.

"The problem is, the middle is blank."

Damian stared at the paper. "Blank?"

"Blank. No digital trail. Cash transactions. Physical handoffs. Untraceable."

Damian's mind raced.

"So how do you stop it?"

Santos smiled. It was a cold smile, barely visible in the dark.

"You can't stop it. But you can scare the people handling it. Make them nervous. Make them second-guess. Make them talk."

He folded the paper, shoved it into Damian's hands.

"Study that tonight. Burn it in the morning."

He stood up. Patted Damian's shoulder.

"Don't make me regret this."

He was gone. The stall door clicked shut behind him.

Damian stood there in the dark, the paper clutched in his hand. His heart pounded.

____

Days passed.

Kincaid. Former "problem solver." Damian spotted him in the cafeteria, sitting alone in the corner. A bowl of soup in front of him. Untouched.

Damian sat down across from him.

"Cutter says you know how to make problems disappear."

Kincaid looked up. His eyes were gray. Cold as stone.

"Depends on the problem."

"People."

Kincaid looked back down at his soup.

"You ever killed anyone?"

Damian paused. "No."

"Then don't talk to me."

Damian didn't move. He stayed seated.

"Victor Hartwell."

Kincaid's hand froze.

"He sent men after me. Three times. I survived, but his influence is still growing. His people are still out there. His daughter—"

"Stay away from the daughter."

Kincaid's voice went hard. Sharp as a blade.

Damian stared at him. "You know her?"

Kincaid didn't answer. But he looked up again. Something flickered in those gray eyes.

"Serena Hartwell," Kincaid said, his voice low, "is different."

"Different how?"

"She doesn't know what her father does. She thinks the money's clean. She thinks she's doing good."

Damian's chest tightened slightly.

He remembered her eyes. At the wedding. Looking at him. Sad. Almost apologetic. Like she was sorry for what was happening to him.

He pushed the memory away.

"She's going to find out eventually."

Kincaid stared at him. "You want to use her."

"I want to destroy her father."

Silence. A long, heavy silence.

Then Kincaid leaned back in his chair.

"You touch her, and I'll find you."

He picked up his spoon. Took a sip of the cold soup.

"But if you want to take down her old man..." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper. Slid it across the table. "Call that number. Say the code phrase: 'Gray Dove.'"

Damian picked up the paper. A string of numbers.

"Thank you."

Kincaid was already standing up. He walked away without another word.

____

Damian walked back to his cell. Cutter was waiting for him on his bunk.

"Who'd you see?"

"Santos. Kincaid."

Cutter nodded. "There's one more."

"Who?"

"Pasternak." Cutter's voice dropped. "Former hacker. Brought down five banks before they caught him. Just for fun."

Damian's pulse quickened. "Where is he?"

"Medical. Got jumped last week. Two broken ribs."

Cutter looked at him.

"He heard about the shower. He knows what you did."

Damian didn't respond. But he remembered the name.

Pasternak.

Another piece.

He lay down on his bunk. Reached into his pocket. The folded paper from Santos. Greg's list of names. Kincaid's phone number.

All of it. All the pieces.

Almost ready.

He closed his eyes.

Victor. I'm coming for you.