Page 82 of Reaper's Desire

By the time a few hours have passed, I have some information—Vivienne Montague has been making significant withdrawals from family accounts over the past three years, transfers that far exceed any reasonable allowance or spending pattern. I open the attachment and start reading through the transaction history. Withdrawals of fifty thousand, seventy-five thousand, a hundred thousand at a time. Transfers to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland. Credit card bills that run into six figures every month. The woman is hemorrhaging money.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, scrolling through page after page of transactions.

"What?" Isabelle leans forward, trying to see the screen. "What did you find?"

I turn the laptop so she can see. "Your stepmother has been spending money at a rate that should be unsustainable. Look at these withdrawals—she's taking hundreds of thousands of dollars from family accounts every month. And these transfers here—" I point to a series of transactions from two years ago, "—those are going to offshore accounts. She's moving money out of the country."

Isabelle stares at the screen, her face going even paler. "That's—that's millions of dollars."

"Over the years, yes. Probably close to fifteen million, based on what I'm seeing here." I scroll down further, finding more transactions. "She's spending faster than the family fortune can sustain. Your father's wealthy, but not infinitely so. Eventually, this kind of spending catches up."

"So she needs more money," Isabelle says quietly.

"She needs a lot more money." I close the laptop and look at her directly. "And there's a very quick way to get it."

Isabelle's fingers twist together in her lap. "If I die, my trust fund goes back to the estate. And if my father—if something happened to him?—"

"Then Vivienne would have access to fifty million dollars. Much more if he were gone. She's already spending money she doesn't have, and she's probably afraid he's going to find out. She's desperate. And desperate people do desperate things."

"But hiring assassins—that's—" Isabelle's voice breaks. "That's insane. That's murder."

"In the world your father operates in, murder is just another transaction. You hire someone, you pay them, the problem goes away. Vivienne has access to your father's connections. She knows how to reach people like me."

Isabelle stares at me. "What do you mean, my father's connections? He's just a businessman."

I let out a slow breath. "Based on the pieces I'm putting together, I'm guessing your father has some connections that are… less aboveboard. Possibly some business deals with this mafia family. And Vivienne, it seems, might be leveraging those connections to get what she wants."

Isabelle stands abruptly, pacing to the window. Her shoulders are tense, her entire body radiating shock and betrayal. "She hates me that much? Enough to have me killed?"

"It's not about hate." I stand as well, moving closer but not touching her. "It's about money. She's in a hole she can't climb out of, and you're the solution. If you die, she gets access to your trust fund. She can pay off whatever debts she's accumulated, maintain her lifestyle, keep living the way she wants to live."

"And my father?" Isabelle's voice is barely audible. "Do you think he knows?"

"I don't know. But if he doesn't know about the spending, he will eventually. And when he finds out, there will be consequences. Vivienne is running out of time."

Isabelle turns to face me, and there are tears streaming down her face now, silent tears that slide down her cheeks and drip off her jaw. "My stepmother ordered a hit on me. She wants me dead so she can steal my inheritance."

I breathe out, looking at her sympathetically. "I think so, yes."

Isabelle wipes at her face with the back of her hand, her expression hardening. "I still hate you."

I feel my chest contract at that, but I don't flinch. "I know."

"You lied to me. You were hired to kill me. You made me trust you, made me—" She stops, her jaw clenching. "You made me feel things for you, and the entire time you were lying."

"I know," I say again.

"But I'm not stupid." She crosses her arms over her chest, her posture defensive. "I'm not stupid enough to refuse your help when there are multiple assassins actively trying to kill me, and apparently, my own stepmother wants me dead."

I nod slowly, understanding what she's offering. It's not forgiveness or reconciliation. It's pragmatism, pure and simple. She needs me in order to stay alive, and she's willing to set aside her anger long enough to accept that.

"I'll protect you," I say quietly. "I'll keep you alive. I'll use every resource I have, every contact, every skill I've developedover fifteen years to make sure no one gets to you, for as long as I can before they get to me."

"And then what?" Her eyes are hard now, all the softness gone. "When this is over, when we've dealt with Vivienne and the assassins and all of it—what happens then?"

"Then you walk away." I swallow hard. "You go back to your life, and… well, if I've survived that long, I'll keep surviving until they finally catch up to me. But you'll never see me again."

She stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for something I'm not sure I can give her. "You protect me. You keep me alive. You use whatever resources you have to stay ahead of whoever's hunting us. But we're not friends."