The Red Ledger: 8 Read online

  The Red Ledger

  8

  MEREDITH WILD

  This book is an original publication of Meredith Wild.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2019 Meredith Wild

  Cover Design by Meredith Wild

  Cover photographs: Alamy & Shutterstock

  * * *

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Continue The Red Ledger

  Also by Meredith Wild

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paris, France

  The way of a fool is right in his own eyes. Simon Pelletier. The fool named for a king. He may have the reverence of the others in his secret society, but he’ll never have mine. I’ve lived through enough to recognize conceit as a marker for malice, and the man they call Soloman is drenched in it.

  His arrogance is the worst kind—unchecked and bolstered by the delusional world he’s built around himself. I could have killed him. I had the chance. But now I’m salivating over the opportunity to best him at his own game. The satisfaction would be greater than any success I’d ever dreamed of as a poor boy from the favela.

  My friendships are few, my trust rarely given. The moment Tristan brought Karina to me, he earned a lifetime of both. God help me, I never knew taking the assignment would push him into a life of murder and darkness. I’ll live with the guilt until the day I die. But it was Simon who set the stage and robbed Tristan of his past. Knowing this makes me want to do more than kill Simon.

  Death is easy. Failure is painful.

  For Simon, I want both.

  Dressed in a black suit tailored to his tall, lithe frame, he strides into La Réserve’s salon.

  I rise casually and greet him. “Soloman. We meet again.”

  His smile is stiff, his posture the same. I suspect he doesn’t like me calling him that, which gives me a sliver of joy as he folds himself into one of the green tufted chairs around the table I chose for our meeting, far from the entrance and other patrons.

  “I apologize for the delay. I would have reached out to you sooner, but things have been”—he pushes his black-rimmed glasses up his narrow nose—“a little hectic.”

  “I wasn’t overly concerned.”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “You needn’t be. It’s done. No complications.”

  On the other side of the salon, the musical sound of ice cubes dropping into an empty tumbler reaches my ears. A siren wails outside and quickly fades away. I lift the glass of liquor I’ve been nursing for a half hour to my lips and let the rest slide down my throat. Decades of wishing for the ultimate revenge on Barcelos give me no other choice than to hold a moment to quietly celebrate this news.

  “Boa viagem. Or as you’d say, good riddance.”

  The lift of his lips seems genuine now. “I’m delighted to be of service.”

  I’ve waited too long to savor this news, but I didn’t meet Simon here to celebrate. I clear my throat and spin my glass on the slick lacquered surface of the table between us.

  “Now that it’s done, where do we go from here? You denied my offer of payment.”

  For the past couple of weeks, I’ve pondered what of mine could be of interest to Simon. With wealth comes an abundance of people trying to latch on to some piece of it. But I never thought it was money he was after.

  “Money is nice, but it’s certainly not everything,” he says.

  “Then name your price.”

  He folds his arms across his lap. “I would very much like the opportunity to do more business with you.”

  “What kind of business? I’m not sure our specialties intersect. Textiles and—” I turn my palm up, searching for the best word. “Favors.”

  “The fact that they don’t is precisely why I need you. I have a venture that I’ve been quietly working on. It’s off to a very promising start, but I’m sure you can appreciate that sometimes an influx of good fortune can attract unwanted attention. The other investors and I need to create some distance from the revenue.”

  “Having more money than you know what to do with sounds like an excellent problem to have.”

  “Thankfully I know exactly what to do with it. I need it cleaned by a reputable company—ideally an international one such as yours with no ties to ours—and redeposited into an account from which I can make distributions to legitimate entities.”

  I know exactly what he’s asking me for.

  “You want me to launder money for you.”

  He pauses. “You would receive a handsome commission for your troubles. Three percent straight off the top.”

  I frown, because even if I truly wanted to get mixed up in Simon’s scheme, I’m not sure that what he’s offering would tempt me. “How much money are we talking about?”

  “Drug money represents nearly five percent of the world’s financial transactions. You do the math.”

  “I’m listening,” I say, eager to hear more.

  “Over the next few months, there will be a significant uptick in illicit drug sales in the States. We have an exclusive arrangement with the top-level distributors to ensure they’re on the receiving end of incoming shipments. We’re charging a sizable finder’s fee for letting them in on the opportunity.”

  I don’t have to do the math to understand the scale of what he’s proposing. Our countries aren’t far apart when it comes to the thriving underground economy fueled by a vast network of traffickers and criminal organizations that together make the drug trade an unstoppable force. There’s more than enough money to be made at any level of the operation.

  “That could be a lot of money to move and make it look legitimate.”

  He tilts his head slightly. “You can be creative. We’re layering on our end. I’d fully expect you to as well for your own protection.”

  The buzz of his earlier news has worn off. All I’m thinking about is strategy now. How to get the information I need with the least amount of commitment. What Simon’s asking me to do is absolutely possible, but saying yes and jeopardizing my business—or pretending I’m willing to—won’t do anyone any good.

  Simon seems to sense my hesitation. “I understand this is a significant request. Helping us with this would be an important gesture to the group. A show of trust and commitment.”

  His invitation to solidify my place in the group is more enticing than he realizes, but my reluctance at this point is real. Taking on that amount of risk for a staggering windfall is a poor man’s bet—one I’d never make.

  “I wish I could help you, Simon. As you said, money is nice, but it isn’t everything. I have my reputation to consider.”

  His nostrils flare slightly as he inhales a deep breath. “How might I entice you, then? Surely there’s something you want that you haven’t managed to acquire already.”

  I consider his r
equest. Simon’s connections and resources are a veritable buffet of possibilities. But what I really want are the details he’s not giving me. He’s gambling on me being a well-behaved cog in his operation, which isn’t going to be enough.

  “When we first met, you asked for context,” I begin. “You said it was important to you before you would accept my request. So I gave you more information than I would have given anyone else. Then we had a deal. I’m too impressed by you to believe the scope of this venture is limited to the collection of fees. There must be more to it.”

  “Of course there is,” he says flatly.

  I shrug. “Entice me, then.”

  He waves over the server and orders a Negroni, which she promptly delivers. Every second of silence between us is heavy with anticipation. I have no idea how or if Simon’s venture ties into his interest in Tristan, but using it as a vehicle to ruin the Company is just as good.

  He takes a drink of the reddish cocktail and wipes the moisture off his lips with the table napkin. “Do you believe in the inherent goodness of people?”

  I’m wholly unprepared for the question, which seems worlds away from the proposal he’s given me. Unsure if lying might change the course of the conversation or what he might be willing to share, I opt for the truth.

  “Generally, yes.”

  He nods, which could be agreement or simple acknowledgment. I can’t be sure until he speaks again.

  “I believe in the inherent weakness of people.” He punctuates the statement with a tight clasp of his hands on his lap.

  “Those two qualities don’t necessarily run in opposition to one another,” I say.

  “They don’t. But I believe in man’s feeble will more than almost anything else. I can’t even attribute it to the grip of addiction. No, we are living in an era where human beings crave real adversity. Perhaps it’s a primal instinct for survival in a world that’s already solved so many of its most devastating problems. I don’t pretend to know the answer. All I know is that the weak, whether you believe they’re inherently good or not, will perish, and it’ll be by a poison of their own design. Drug abuse is pandemic—a genocide carried out and perpetuated by its own victims. I refuse to entertain a crisis of conscience and ignore the financial opportunities inside this ecosystem that shows no signs of decline.”

  “I wasn’t challenging your motives.” Even if his impassioned speech hadn’t confirmed it, I already knew Simon was a terrible person. “But you haven’t given me a good enough reason to risk my business for this.”

  “It’s true that what I’m asking of you is only one piece of a much larger initiative. Drugs are already flowing into the country, with or without our help. We’re simply widening the artery so they flow to the right people.”

  “And then?”

  “Society has created a problem without a solution. We’ve been developing the solution. Within the year, we’ll have acquired at least a hundred treatment centers, armed with a line of revolutionary pharmaceuticals to meet the overwhelming demand.”

  “Demand that you’re accelerating.”

  He shrugs. “The demand already existed. We’re simply guiding its course. Gaining better control over it.”

  “Seems like investing in people’s weakness is a more profitable venture than having faith in their goodness.”

  He answers with a crooked grin. “Precisely. And if you can deliver this one piece for us, I would be willing to bring you in on the rest. There’s plenty to go around.”

  If what he’s saying is true and if this plan is already in motion, they stand to make billions. Unfortunately for him, it’ll never be enough to lure me into their world.

  I suspect Simon’s told me more than he should have, but I can’t give him the answer he wants. Not yet. Tristan will be on the ground in the morning. I let my instincts guide me last time. I don’t regret it, but I can’t cut him out again.

  “I’d like a few days to consider your proposal.”

  “Very well. My offer stands.” Simon pushes up his sleeve, revealing an understated but sleek black leather Patek Philippe. The timepiece probably cost more than my penthouse in Ipanema. “And if you can tolerate Paris for another day, I’d like you to meet some of my associates. Unfortunately, I have a rather urgent business matter I must attend to in Berlin. Otherwise I’d join you.”

  “I’ll be in the city for a few days.”

  I plan to stay as long as it takes to get to the bottom of this.

  I stand as Simon does. He extends his hand, his shake confident and firm, as if he’s closed our deal. His confidence feeds my own. If he thinks he’s already convinced me, it could be the open door I need.

  “I look forward to our next meeting,” I say, giving him even more hope.

  “As do I. Until then, you can expect to hear from a man named Davis Knight. You could say he’s the treasurer of our little group. I think you’ll like what he has to say.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Isabel

  I’m sprawled out across the crisp white bedspread, doing my best to fight off the desire to sleep. I had hoped the thrill of landing in one of the most beautiful and decadent cities in the world would give me the adrenaline rush I need to get through the day.

  If we were here under any other circumstances, I’d be falling in love with every detail and racing through the city to take it all in. Even here, our room at Le Bristol overlooking the gardens is beyond charming, bathed in shades of cream and periwinkle, its walls framed with ornate molding. Crystals from the chandelier above our bed catch the light beaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. If a place could get into someone’s blood, Paris already seems to be in mine.

  The sound of the shower ceases, and a few minutes later, Tristan emerges from the bathroom, a towel knotted at his hip. He rubs a hand towel briskly over his damp hair before slicking his fingers through the dark strands. I recognize that even in that short time apart, I missed him.

  He’s dark and damaged and beautiful against this new backdrop. Long gone is the sweet, broken boy I fell in love with all those years ago. All man now, Tristan wears the six years between us in his scars and the lean bands of muscle beneath them. The scars don’t pain me as much as they used to. They’ve become reminders that no matter what he went through, he survived. Against all odds, we survived.

  He catches me looking at him and comes toward me. “Are you going to get some sleep?”

  I glance at the clock on the side table. “Not much point. It’s already ten in the morning. I’ll just stay up.”

  The bed dips under his weight when he sits beside me. I refocus on the laptop screen in front of me, trying to ignore the sting in my tired eyes.

  “Find anything good?”

  “I don’t know. My French is already a lot better than my chemistry, I guess,” I say. “I have no idea what half of this means.”

  I spent the seven-hour stretch across the Atlantic jamming as much of the local language into my brain as I could and then trying to make some sense of the trials and test results that Mushenko passed on to Townsend in Boston. Felix will be hitting the market any day now, and we still aren’t sure how dangerous it may be to the people who are about to flock to it. The window to do anything about it is quickly closing.

  “I never thought I’d say it, but I almost wish Townsend was here to help me translate some of this.” I sigh, partly in frustration but mostly from the nagging fatigue. “They’ve been developing this drug for years, but this only goes back two years. Maybe that’s when they broke it off from Elysium Dream.”

  “Maybe.” He massages his palm across my back and shoulders, gently kneading the muscles still stiff from the flight.

  I moan and let my eyes drift closed. “If you keep doing that, you’re going to put me to sleep.” The sound of Tristan’s laptop clicking closed draws them open again. “I’m not done with that.”

  “It can wait,” he says, sliding it to the floor and rolling me onto my back.

  He follows
me down and brackets his arms on either side of my head. He brushes the tip of his nose along mine and kisses the corner of my mouth and down my neck.

  I laugh as tiny droplets of water roll off his shoulders onto my chest. “You’re getting me wet.”

  “Oh really? You’ve never complained about it before.” His voice is low and playful as he slides his thigh between mine.

  I pretend to push him away, but I can already tell by the look in his eyes that he’s not deterred. Lying back feels too good, so I entertain his teasing caresses and let them melt my resolve.

  He catches my thigh and anchors it over his hip. I revel in the weight of him. The silent demand in that extra pressure. It’s protective and possessive, and I’ll never get tired of it.

  “What’s gotten into you all of a sudden?”

  “I want to make love to you in Paris. Is that so wrong?”

  “No, except we’re meeting with Mateus in a few hours. And I still have to make sense of those documents.”

  “Work, work, work,” he mutters before sweeping down for a searing kiss that quickly drains my thoughts of anything but the way he makes me feel.

  With the skill of a lover who’s come to know every button to push when it comes to my body, he works me over until I’m moaning against his lips, writhing under his touch, and aching for all of him. When he starts tugging at my clothes, I help him until they’re scattered on the floor with his towel and there’s nothing more between us. I grasp at his waist to coax him close, but he evades me, instead carefully inching his way down my body. His hot kisses and worshiping fingers don’t stop when he settles between my thighs.