The Devil's Daughter

by Ophelia Bell

  I grit my teeth. “You know I can fight my own battles, Sam. And I highly doubt you had any reason to get into it with them at the time, anyway. Just some overblown sense of stupid honor. They were my friends. I told you that then, and it still stands. Friends. That’s it.”

  Toni’s sly grin makes me look at her again. “What?” I demand.

  “Honey, you might need to tell them that.” She tilts her head toward the shadows and I glance at Baz, who quickly turns his head, but not before I catch him staring directly at me. “And yourself,” Toni adds under her breath, bumping my shoulder with hers.

  “So, how’s it going living together?” I say, changing the subject. “Maybe next week my jailors will let me come for a visit. All I’ve seen are photos of your house. So jealous.”

  Toni chuckles and reaches out to squeeze Sam’s thigh. “Better than I could’ve imagined, to be honest. We’d love to have you over soon.”

  “Little Malu’s going to love it,” I say. The puppies are being rambunctious again, and two of them topple Sam over and start licking him while Toni and I compare notes about our new living situations, as well as commiserate over the increased security measures.

  Toni owns her own house near the university, a cute little mission-style bungalow with just enough open space in the back to keep a dog happy. I wonder if she knows the extent to which her brothers have gone with the surveillance and security system they installed to keep an eye on her. I consider confiding in her that I discovered the video feed proving they put cameras in every room, but I opt against it. If she knows, I’ll sound like an idiot. If she doesn’t, she might make her brothers turn off the cameras, and then I’d lose the one tenuous connection I have to the outside world from within that tower.

  It’s only been a few days since I stumbled across that feed. I was hunting for dirt on my boss—and my father’s connection to him—when I found it. Cameras are everywhere in the penthouse, even more there than in Toni’s house. It’s as if we’re on some sort of messed-up reality show, but no one asked me to sign a release. Or Drake just cares that much about security.

  Drake Stavros is an enigma, and Arturo must have something on him to get him to agree to facilitate my protection the way he has. Granting me the internship was only the tip of the iceberg; he also agreed to let me move into his penthouse at the top of the building he owns downtown. I’ve asked why, but he just deflects and changes the subject to work, which I suppose I should be happy with.

  In exchange for agreeing to uproot my life and move from my dormitory to the penthouse, I insisted that he also mentor me in his business. There must be something big between him and Arturo though, and I have to know what it is.

  Frankly, I’m not sure who I want to know more about the most—Drake or my father. Why am I worth the trouble? Why am I so special that they have cameras in my bedroom?

  My gut reaction upon discovering this fact was to confront the twins about it, to demand they take the cameras out. But some small part of me resisted. Perhaps it was a subconscious need to combat the boredom in some fashion, but the idea of being watched holds a certain allure I never expected I’d feel. Admittedly, it would be different if it weren’t them; I trust the twins, and have always objectively known how attractive they are. I’d be lying if I said I don’t find Drake attractive too. He’s about the same age as Marco and works out just as hard as the twins, though where he finds the time to do that is beyond me, since he’s always working.

  So after I got over my initial outrage about the surveillance, I started to wonder whether they find me attractive too. So far it’s been no more than a few casual tests now that I know where the cameras are. There’s one aimed at my bed that I finally found hidden just beneath the thermostat on my wall. There’s another in the bathroom, attached to the overhead light fixture. But until the last couple days I haven’t done more than carry out completely benign activities in front of them. Nothing overt, at any rate, aside from pooping with the lights off.

  Knowing they’re there—that someone might be observing every time I undress, every time I bathe—has added an unmistakably exciting facet to the idea of being under lock and key. Not only that, but there are three sets of eyes who might be watching. It’s made me ten times more conscious, more aware of Ben and Baz when we’re together.

  Now, for example, even though I’m immersed in a pile of dark fur and snuggles, a heavy, hot tension deep within reminds me that the twins are nearby, watching.

  It’s wrong of me not to tell my sister that they are probably watching her too. But when I went back to check the feed from Sam and Toni’s house, I realized the views of their space are nowhere near as invasive. There’s a camera in the entryway, and one in every room except the bathrooms. The camera in their bedroom isn’t even aimed at the bed, but at the French doors that lead out into their back yard. They’re monitoring her windows and doors only, it seems, unlike my room, where the cameras are all about who’s inside and not who might conceivably enter without an invitation.

  I’m even more curious about Drake as a result. Does he watch? Does he even care that I’m there, or am I just part of doing business? Someone he can mold as his protégé the way Arturo has molded Celeste?

  I haven’t noticed any shift in their behavior since I made a more conscious effort to undress near my bed, or to take longer showers and avoid drying off behind the steam-coated doors.

  Yet they aren’t looking at me differently today, despite Toni pointing out that they are paying more attention to me than usual. So either they aren’t actually watching, or what they see isn’t all that interesting.

  It’s killing me not to know which it is, so I’ve decided this afternoon I’m going to try something different. I’m going to get a reaction, one way or another.

  2

  Drake

  The faint buzz of my phone signals that Elle and the twins are home. The vague sense of relief that washes over me irks me. I didn’t even realize how tense I was ever since they left the penthouse this morning. It’s the first time they’ve taken an outing with Elle since she moved in.

  What irritates me more is that I’m starting to like having them around.

  After almost five years of solitude, I’ve come to prefer living alone. Being railroaded into becoming a guardian for an old friend’s brilliant daughter wasn’t an ideal situation, but I wasn’t about to turn down Arturo Flores when he asked for a favor.

  I did object when he informed me she’d be accompanied by a pair of bodyguards he’d assigned to her. Even though I was short a chief of security for Typhon’s HQ, I prefer to vet and hire my men myself. But Flores drives a hard bargain. He insisted that he’d personally overseen the twins’ training, and while they were still green, they were both highly capable. Ben’s the muscle and Baz is the tech genius, both possessing the qualities I look for in a security chief. In all the years I’ve known Flores, he’s never skimped on hiring quality personnel.

  Though I have a feeling I’m actually doing him another favor by agreeing to the deal. His favorite pair of guard dogs have evidently lost their love for their master.

  They are more than attentive to Elle, though, so it’s saved me a headache when it comes to assigning her a new detail. And I can’t dispute that they’ve had their work cut out for them, being part of one of the most lucrative criminal organizations in the country, though I can’t begin to guess how much Arturo Flores is actually worth. The fact that he’s got a man at my tier of income on speed dial says enough, but also suggests the favors wealthier, more powerful people owe him is the most valuable currency he trades in.

  I owe the man my life and my legacy, so naturally I couldn’t say no when he came to me with his request. The initial favor was simple: take his youngest daughter under my wing, but don’t let on that we have a connection, or that she has a connection to him. Evidently when Elle Santos started working for me, she was oblivious to the facts surrounding her paternity.

  Not that she needed th
e connection to qualify for an internship in Typhon’s finance department. Her transcripts spoke for themselves. She’s been on the Dean’s List since her freshman year and is on track to graduate Summa Cum Laude—with double majors in finance and computer science—a full semester early. She’s already stacking up courses toward an MBA.

  But her grades aren’t half as impressive as her work ethic. Not five minutes after the alert comes notifying me of their return, a second alert arrives indicating she’s logged into the company network. I can picture her in the windowed alcove of the penthouse, typing away at the workstation I set up for her there. A few seconds later, she’s accessing the internal audit software I was teaching her to use only a week ago. Normally the department manager handles the training, but I made a promise to Arturo, so I intend to keep it.

  Besides, she’s probably not even in the training suite. If I had to guess, she’s digging through the code of the program itself, looking for flaws like the one she found late last winter that would have cost my company millions if not for her sharp eye.

  I’m between tasks, so I sit back to observe her keystrokes for a few minutes, something I don’t usually allow myself to do. I’m not in the habit of spying on my employees, but I tell myself this is part of what I agreed to when I took on the burden of keeping her safe.

  With Elle, I’ve found myself more and more fascinated with how her mind works, how she’s able to track down potential flaws in our financial algorithms, or loopholes we can exploit to circumvent tax law. Even though I know she’s had nothing to do with Arturo’s business, I recognize the pattern of thought. She’s every bit as shrewd and calculating as her father, which are skills I’m more than happy to help her cultivate.

  The grace with which she moves through the lines of code becomes hypnotic, and I watch for half an hour or so until my assistant buzzes me, reminding me of an afternoon meeting. Reluctantly, I close the window that mirrors Elle’s laptop screen and stand, leaving my office to head down to the conference rooms on a lower floor.

  It’s a mindless circle-jerk of a call between Typhon and the CEOs of two shipping partners who frequently contract with us to use our fleet. I’m pushing to get more companies like Typhon on the renewable energy bandwagon, but it’s a hard sell when fossil fuel lobbyists are in everyone’s pockets. The fact that our industry doesn’t rely on the power grid is one complication. Innovating to find new ways to power freighters to carry goods around the world is more than a pet project, though. It’s the surest way I can see to keep Typhon thriving for another century. Adapt or die, my father used to say, and while the man was rotten to the core, he wasn’t an idiot. He just chose to adapt in unhealthy directions.

  At least the meeting ends with two more CEOs agreeing to attend the renewable energy gala I’m hosting this weekend. My assistant will be pleased I’m filling the last few seats. As I’m heading back to my office, it occurs to me there’s at least one person I need to add to the list, and that idea spurs another.

  When I reach my assistant’s desk, she glances up from her work with an attentive lift to her eyebrows.

  “Lindsey, add Arturo Flores to the guest list for the gala, along with ten others. And I will be bringing a plus-one.”

  She stands, her eyes wide at this unexpected change. “That’s a full table. Are you sure?”

  “We have room. I’ll send you names in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want to share your date’s name, at least? I’ll go ahead and put her—or him?—down, and I’m guessing Mr. Flores will join you at your table?”

  “You guess right. And the young woman’s name is Elle. Elle Flores. They’ll all be at my table.”

  She blinks at me, and in a careful tone says, “You mean Elle Santos.”

  I take a beat, realizing my slip, but luckily no one else is within earshot and Lindsey already knows who Elle is. “Right. I guess I subconsciously need to remind myself who her father really is,” I say with a chuckle.

  The lines around Lindsey’s mouth crinkle when she purses her lips, but she restrains herself from critiquing my choice of date. I’d have gotten less of a sourpuss reaction if I’d actually chosen a man.

  “Out with it,” I say, preferring brutal honesty over employees who will walk on eggshells around me.

  “She’s young. Not to mention an employee. That’s all.”

  “She’s also going through a rough time right now. And eight years isn’t a huge age difference in the grand scheme of things—you said yourself there’s more than a decade between you and your husband. But this isn’t a date. She’s been cooped up in the penthouse and is getting restless. One brief afternoon visit with her brother and sister isn’t going to be enough. My intention is to give her an opportunity for an outing without risking her safety.

  “Which reminds me, make sure we double the budget for security at the venue. I’ll let the twins know tonight so they increase the staff for it, but go ahead and inform Karl Thomas this afternoon too.” While the twins are now my heads of security, Karl is their second in command. Since the event is only a few days away, the more people who are aware of the needs, the quicker it’ll happen.

  She frowns. “Is this about Elle, or is it about the email you received last week?”

  My jaw flexes at the reminder of the cryptic message some anonymous asshole sent me. “I’m not giving into threats, Lindsey. If someone wants to come for me, let them.”

  “Drake,” she admonishes, “it’s the third time someone’s threatened the company if you don’t step down. I know you won’t go to the authorities due to your father’s history, but you can’t just leave it alone. I wish you cared more about your own wellbeing, but you’re not the only one to think about now. If this person follows through…”

  “I’m a rich man, Lindsey. There are people out there who make a hobby out of extorting people like me. This is probably nothing. The increased security isn’t about me, it’s about Elle, so please just do as I ask. I’ll cover any budget overshoot out of pocket, if necessary.”

  “As you wish, sir.” She presses her lips tight, silent judgment emanating from her in waves.

  “Thank you.” I sigh. “And I’ll talk to Baz Quin about the email. Maybe he can at least find out who has it out for me.”

  Lindsey relaxes a little and nods. “How is Elle, by the way?” she asks as she eases back into her seat. “I’d gotten used to seeing her around for the past few months. She was a breath of fresh air around here. So bright. And pretty.”

  “Well enough, considering. And thank you for your discretion. I don’t like asking you to lie for me, but this is important.”

  “Working here means too much to me to risk it. Working for you, I mean. What you’re doing for that girl is above and beyond, but after getting to know her, I’m sure it’s worth it. After everything from before…”

  She trails off, shaking her head, but she doesn’t need to fill in the blanks. I know what she means, and I know all too well the secrets she was forced to keep for my father that nearly broke her, and nearly ran the company into the ground.

  Lindsey’s one of the few people on the planet who know most of my secrets, and she might be the only one I actually trust with them.

  I retreat to my office, pausing for a moment to enjoy the deep gold of the sky over the bay as the sun begins its descent. The Coronado Bridge stretches off into the distance, a line like an arrow aimed at the sun. It’s a clear afternoon, promising a warm night, no doubt. I take a moment to pull out my phone and text my chef, suggesting an outdoor supper tonight so the four of us can enjoy the evening.

  It feels strange, this sense of domesticity that’s crept into my waking hours since they moved in. It hasn’t even been that long, but I already look forward to the companionship, even though most days I feel like an outsider looking in. So far I’ve avoided insinuating myself into their little triangle. Elle and the twins have a history, though it isn’t clear how deep that rabbit hole goes. I just know they’ve kno
wn each other since they were kids, which speaks to Arturo being involved, at least peripherally, in her life all along.

  But I don’t get the sense that they’ve ever been more than friends. She ribs them like brothers, and they give as good as they get, though I don’t miss the way they both look at her when she isn’t paying attention. She may have been just a childhood friend at one time, but she’s definitely a woman in their eyes now.

  I avoid looking, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice. Elle has absolutely no clue how gorgeous she is, and it shows. She possesses the brash innocence of an extroverted young woman who grew up with four older brothers. She lacks the filter of a girl taught to behave like a proper young woman and isn’t afraid of sharing her opinion. This, plus her drive and dedication in school likely insulated her from the advances of boys as much as her brothers did, so it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s so clueless about the allure she has.

  It’s definitely not lost on the twins, though. Or on me, though Lindsey was right; I’m probably too old for her and should restrict my attention to that of a mentor, not a suitor. Paying too much attention to her is a minefield of potential issues that go way beyond the complications of a boss getting involved with an employee. There are far more compelling reasons for me to keep our relationship formal.

  In the interest of mentorship, I turn back to my desk and sit, switching on the monitor and pulling up the screen I closed earlier. I’m curious how much headway she’s made on her trek through the auditing program and fully expect to be impressed.

  But what I see isn’t financial software code at all.

  A heavy stone drops into my belly at a sight I thought I’d banished from my mind years ago: A screen filled with camera angles of bedrooms, one of which shows a young woman seated cross-legged on a bed with a laptop open in front of her.

  The shock takes a moment to shake off, and the realization that I’m looking at Elle in her own bedroom upstairs delays any anger or confusion.