1
ELENA –
The books were a fucking disaster. A deliberate, insulting disaster. Marco had either been skimming more than she thought, or he’d panicked and tried to bury his tracks on the way out. It didn’t matter. It would soon be dealt with. The problem now was the gaping hole he’d left in her operation. The river of dirty cash flowing through Violet wasn’t slowing down, and it needed a new, clean channel to flow into.
Lucius, a broad, handsome bearded man with long, black hair pushed back and her head of security, stood silently by the door of her office overlooking the club floor.
“Any promising leads?” Elena asked, her voice echoing in the large, dark room.
“A few. Most are either too connected to known rivals or too stupid to trust with a lunch order, let alone this.” Lucius handed her a tablet. “This one is new. Sofie Gellar. Resume is sharp. Top of her class at Wharton, then a fast track at Ernst & Young. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket.”
“A choirboy,” Elena murmured, scrolling through the digital file. There was a photo. Blonde hair, freckles across her nose, an open face that looked like it belonged in a university library, not a place like this. “Why is a choirboy looking for a job like this?”
“Says she had a philosophical disagreement with her bosses. Wanted more... creative freedom.”
Elena almost smiled. It was a lie, of course. Everyone lied. The question was what the lie was covering. Greed? Desperation? She was too clean. It made Elena’s instincts itch.
“Set up an interview,” she said, handing the tablet back. “Tomorrow. I want to see if the face matches the file.”
Lucius nodded and left. Elena turned back to the window, to the full, throbbing club. She needed someone smart. Someone she could control. This Sofie Gellar looked soft. Malleable. But sometimes the soft-looking ones were the most dangerous. You didn’t see the knife until it was already between your ribs.
Either way, she would find out.
A soft knock at the office door broke her concentration a moment later. Lucius leaned back in. “Marco is here to see you,Jefa.”
Elena’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Send him in.”
The man who entered was the source of the disaster in her books: Marco Di Rossi. The fuck-up accountant she was about to deal with. He wore a silk shirt open at the collar, a heavy gold chain nestled in the graying hair on his chest. His fingers, adorned with rings, tapped a nervous rhythm on the polished surface of her desk.
“Elena, mi querida, you look tense,” Marco said, his smile a little too wide, a little too wet. “Business is good, no? The club is packed.”
Elena didn’t return the smile. She leaned back in her chair, the leather sighing under her weight. She held up a single sheet of paper, a bank statement. “Business is good, Marco. But it seems our friends in Panama are seeing less of it these days. A lot less. Funny how that works.”
Marco’s tapping stopped. His smile tightened at the edges. “There have been... complications. New regulations. You know how it is.”
“I know how it is,” Elena repeated, her voice flat. She let the silence stretch, watching a bead of sweat trace a path from his temple down to his jawline. The air in the room grew thick. “I also know that your son just bought a two-million-dollar apartment in Miami. Cash. Complications must pay well.”
The pretense evaporated. Marco’s face hardened, the affable mask replaced by the cunning rat he’d always been. “You cannot expect undying loyalty when you pay in scraps, girl. Your father... he understands the way things work. A little for you, a little for me. It’s business.”
“My father is not here,” Elena said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I am. And you didn’t take a little, Marco. You stole from me. You thought because I am a woman, I would not notice? Or that I would notice and do nothing?”
He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor. “What will you do, huh? You are a child playing at her father’s game. You think you can frighten me?”
Elena didn’t blink. She watched him, her gaze steady. She saw the moment his bravado cracked, the moment he realized the calculation he’d made was fatally flawed. He saw not a girl, but a predator.
“Lucius,” Elena said, her tone conversational.
The door opened instantly. Lucius filled the doorway, his presence a sudden chill in the room.
Marco’s eyes darted between them, the reality of his situation crashing down. He took a step back, his hands coming up. “Elena, wait. We can fix this. It was a mistake. I can give it all back, with interest!”
Elena stood up, smoothing the front of her tailored trousers. She walked around the desk, her movements fluid and unhurried. “There is no fixing a betrayal, Marco. Only consequences.”
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. From a holster tucked against the small of her back, she drew a compact, black pistol. There was no hesitation, no dramatic pause. It was simply the next logical step in the conversation.
Marco’s eyes widened, his mouth opening to form a word that never came.
The gunshot was a sharp, concussivepop, swallowed almost entirely by the soundproofed walls and the persistent thump of the music from the club. Marco Di Rossi crumpled to the floor, a dark, spreading stain blooming on the expensive silk of his shirt.
Elena stood over him for a moment, the scent of cordite sharp in her nose. She ejected the cartridge, pocketed it, and slid the pistol back into its holster.
She looked at Lucius, who hadn’t so much as flinched. “Clean this up. The carpet is ruined. Have it replaced by morning.”
“Yes, Jefa,” Lucius said, his voice a low rumble. He was already pulling out his phone, his eyes scanning the room, planning the disposal.
Elena turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her on the problem of Marco Di Rossi. She didn’t look back. Out on the club floor, the lights strobed, and bodies moved in a sea of oblivious rhythm. No one had heard a thing. This was her world. This was the stakes.
___
SOFIE –
The coffee in the FBI bullpen was always shit, but Frank made it worse by how damn proud he was of it. He leaned against the doorframe of her cubicle, mug in hand, watching her sort through a mountain of paperwork.
“Another day, another dollar, Williams,” he said, taking a loud sip.
Grace Williams offered a thin smile, not looking up from a particularly convoluted wire transfer record. “Something like that, Frank.”
“You know, most rookies your age are still chasing down deadbeat dads for back child support. You’ve got a knack for the quiet stuff. The numbers.” He came in and dropped a thin file onto the one clear spot on her desk. It was stark, almost empty. “How’s your Spanish?”
That got her to look up. “Passable. I can order a beer and ask where the bathroom is.”
“Good enough. We’ve got a tail on Estaban Alvarez, but the old man’s a ghost. A damn fortress. His daughter, though... Elena. She’s the one moving the money.” He gestured for her to open the file.
Inside was a single, grainy photo of a severe-looking woman with dark hair and a surveillance shot of a sleek, black-mirrored building with the word VIOLET glowing in subtle neon. Grace looked from the woman to the building and back.
“A strip club? Really?” she said, the words out before she could stop them.
Frank let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, come on, Williams. It’s not like you’d be hanging off the poles. You have a degree in accounting, no? That’s what they’re looking for. A new numbers person because the previous one...” He paused, his expression going flat. “Disappeared. Left a real mess behind. She needs a replacement. Someone discreet, unconnected.”
The click in her mind was almost audible. The photo, the club, the missing accountant. This was it. The big one. She kept her voice even. “And you want me to answer the ad.”
“I want you to be the perfect candidate. Your cover is Sofie Gellar. You had a falling out with a big firm, you’re looking for a cash-heavy, no-questions-asked situation. You’re perfect for it. You look...” He gestured at her with his coffee mug. “You look like you balance your checkbook for fun.”
Grac chuckled at that. It was the closest Frank would ever come to a compliment.
“What’s the operational goal?” Grace asked.
“Get inside. The money laundering is just the door. We walk through it, we find the trafficking routes, the weapon sales, the bodies. We connect it all back to Estaban. You plant the bugs, you mirror the ledgers, you be the best damn accountant she’s ever had. You make yourself indispensable.” Frank’s expression was grim. “This isn’t a desk job anymore, Williams. You’ll be living it. You understand? One misstep, though, and you’ll disappear just like the last guy.”
Grace – no, Sofie now – nodded, her eyes locked on the photo of Elena Alvarez. The woman in it seemed to look right back at her, all sharp edges and cold calculation. It was just a picture, but it felt like a challenge.
“I understand,” Sofie said, and she did. This was the job she’d worked for.
“Good. Lucius Vega, her head of security, already has your file. The interview is set for tomorrow at the club.” Frank turned to leave, then paused. “And Williams? Don’t get charmed. These people, they’re not like us. They’re animals with nice suits. Remember that.”
He walked away, leaving her with the file and the face of Elena Alvarez. Grace closed the folder. She didn’t need to look at it again. The image was already burned into her mind.
