Page 107 of Fiery Little Thing
The tension around his eyes bleeds away, replaced by a gleam in his iris and a smile full of teeth, which sends a shiver down my spine. “Eighty grand in my bank account. It cleared yesterday morning.”
I blink.
Eighty?
My jaw drops. “It worked?”
It’s not the $5 million Kohen was hoping to have full access to when he graduates, but $80K is more than most people earn in a year. If we play it smart, that will be enough money to keep us afloat for a couple of years.
I whistle. “Had I known blackmailing Kiervan would work, I would have suggested you do it sooner.” If Kohen can’t have a slice of his own trust fund, what better justice than taking a slice of his piece of shit brother’s. Shoving it to Kiervan is so much more satisfying. “What did you say to him?”
“That you’re in the wind, the money is out of my reach, I have evidence that I’ve been writing his assignments for him, and that my silence can be bought for a hundred thousand dollars,” he explains.
My brows knit together. “Did your brother seriously try to barter when you’re hanging his livelihood over his head?”
“He’s my father’s son. It just means phase two comes earlier rather than later.” The smirk that paints his lips has me on edge. Kohen’s revenge plan hedges on the long game, and I couldn’t fathom waiting years to make my grandfather pay.
“One hundred grand buys him three years of freedom. Eighty buys him two. My father’s decision to withhold my trust fund means his glory days end this week.” Letting go of my waist, he pulls out a flash drive from his pocket. “His password is the year he won his first golf tournament and the name of his second yacht.” Kohen places the USB in the palm of my hand. “In ten weeks, Osman Pharmaceuticals will issue corporate bonds to Jonathan in his personal capacity,and Whitlock Investments.Seventeen weeks from now, Osman Pharmaceuticals will be a fifth of the way through manufacturing their miracle drug, and that kill switch in your hand will end up in my father’s competitors’ laps.” The smile he’s wearing is beaming with light. “The hard drive holds all of the company’s latest research, data, processes, and every single piece of information I’ve downloaded since I was fourteen years old. But most importantly: how to make their miracle drug.”
My lips part. The motherfucker didn’t tell me about any of this. Kohen told me that there are worse ways to make a person suffer, and he really is the master of it all.
He covers my hand with his own. “We’re going to burn the Whitlocks and turn you into the queen of the ashes. And together, we’re going to make the house of the Osmans fall.” Raising my knuckles to his lips, he plants a gentle kiss on the unblemished skin. “You’re going to need a bigger bat.” My very own pyromaniac tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear as his eyes go hard. “Now who the fuck did you kill?”
Six Months Later
Blood rushes through my ears in a roaring rhythm as I tap my foot against the car floor. My swollen bottom lip aches from how much I’ve been gnawing on it these past few days. Kohen squeezes my thigh and continues rubbing soothing circles while keeping his other hand on the wheel. He’s been shooting me worried glances since we left our apartment this morning—even more, now that we both have ski masks on and my vengeance is within reach.
“Breathe, Klepto.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap, gritting my teeth.
The radio can barely be heard above the roar of the struggling Honda Civic I stole in another state last week. The engine is screwed up, but the model is new enough to pass through any neighborhood without raising alarm bells. We changed the platesto a new set, and there’s a fresh—badly done—coat of silver paint on it, so no camera can link the car back.
The quiet streets we drive down are filled with mansions, sprawling farmland, and forestry, all deserted under the obstructed moonlight. My grandfather’s manor is out in the countryside, where the government hasn’t bothered using tax dollars to buy streetlights to illuminate the barren roads. Which means there’s no telling how many cameras are witnessing our arrival.
I haven’t seen or heard from Jonathan since I ran from Seraphic Hills six months ago. Kohen has heard from his family plenty of times—less now that they’re experiencing financial difficulties. But my grandfather? Dead silence. Part of me thinks we’re about to walk into a trap. The other part—thehopefulpart—suspects he doesn’t want to waste resources trying to find me. When I was younger, every time my mother fell off the wagon, and I went running to him to find her, his response was always a cold “She’ll show up eventually. People like her always do.” Maybe that’s what he thinks of me.
Picking at my nail bed, I try to figure out what I will say to my grandfather. I’ve had months to work it out, but nothing feels right. I have so many questions, but I also want to make him beg for my forgiveness even though I know he’ll never lower himself. Men like him will never kneel for anything unless I cut off his feet.
But what if my grandmother canceled her trip to my uncle’s and stayed home. She’s a grade A bitch, but I don’t want to kill the woman. Tonight, only one person dies.
Six months of planning, learning how to carjack, deciding how I want him to go, figuring out my grandfather’s schedule and his security—or lack thereof nowadays. I’ve been busy, to say the least. All the while, Kohen has lived a seminormal life in college and hasbeen taking weekly extracurriculars to keep the scholarship grants coming. He even got me taking a martial arts class, and I learned how to use a gun. Kohen’s becoming an upstanding citizen while I’m shaping up to become the perfect criminal.
Kohen gives my thigh another squeeze as he pulls onto the curb and parks the car a couple yards away from the border of my grandfather’s property.
“You ready?” Kohen’s voice usually soothes the violent thrumming in my veins, but tonight, no amount of smooth-talking will settle my nerves.
Any snarky comment or joke I want to say to lift the somber atmosphere dies before it makes it to my tongue. Once we step out of the car, two things could happen.
One, we succeed. My grandfather dies, and then Kohen and I go back to our normal lives.
Or two, we fail miserably.
I give him a tight nod in response to his question, then step out of the car, double-checking that my gun is safe in my pocket before righting the oversized black coat that’s been lined with weights and stuffed to make me look larger than I am. We didn’t see any cameras in this particular area all the times we’ve staked the place out, but there’s no telling if we might have missed one. Not to mention that even though it’s almost midnight and the temperature is toeing the line of freezing, there could be someone out here to witness our crimes.
Glancing back at Kohen, he tosses me one of the duffle bags stuffed with more empty bags. Then he swings his own duffle onto his back and readjusts his ski mask before grabbing the three gas canisters.
My oversized boots slap the ground as I follow behind him toward the brick wall that stands two feet taller than me. Kohen kneels on the wet grass in front of the fence, cupping his gloved hands atop his knee. I shakily place my foot into his waiting hands and mentally prepare myself for the ache that will follow. He bears the brunt of my weight and gives me a boost up the wall, but it doesn’t stop me from swallowing a whimper as I grip the edge of the brick. Just as I expected, pain slices through my middle knuckle as I force my fingers to latch on to the fence. No amount of exercising will change the fact that the knuckle didn’t set right—and we don’t exactly have the finances to afford surgically correcting it.
