Revenge: An Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Lauren Landish

Katrina laughs and kisses me, her lips so soft and perfect. “Don't worry, I'll always be with you.”

  I step back, and look into Katrina's eyes. “I love you, Katrina. From the time I was twelve, you’ve been the one. I want...”

  A knock at the door interrupts me, and Katrina steps back, fading into the darkness of the loft. I want to follow her, but for some reason, my feet won't move. Just before the shadows swallow her, she raises her hand, palm up to me. “I'll always be with you...”

  “Katrina, don't go!”

  “Don't go!” I yell, sitting up, sweat pouring off my body. I'm alone, but the knocking continues, and I realize someone's trying to get me to open the door. “Go away!”

  “Oniichan, it's me,” I hear, and I get off the bed, going over and opening the door. Andrea is there, and I notice that it's raining, hard. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” I tell her, sort of ushering her inside. She's dripping wet, and I wonder where her umbrella is. Then I realize knowing Andrea, who tends to be her own woman no matter what, she probably rode over here on the Honda scooter she bought a year ago. I glance outside, and my suspicions are confirmed, the distinctive funky tubular frame and dual headlights making it stand out in the downpour. “Why'd you bring the scooter?”

  “It didn't start raining until I was halfway here,” Andrea explains, twisting out her long hair over the sink in the kitchen area. “When Nathan told me where you were, I didn't take the time to read the weather report.”

  “Why'd he tell you where I am?” I ask, instantly suspicious.

  Andrea sighs and gives me a look before finishing twisting out her hair and then whipping it back. “I'm dripping wet, soaked to the skin, and to be honest, cold as hell since I had a whipping case of wind chill from riding over here as fast as I could. You mind if I at least dry off a little bit and maybe get something to prevent hypothermia before you start the interrogation?”

  That's my Andrea, sweet and supporting one minute, sarcastic and bitchy the next. I nod and look around, realizing that I have no idea where Katrina even kept her towels. I go over to the cheap dresser and open the top drawer, trying not to cry again as I see the single sports bra inside, and a pair of red panties that I for some reason know were from the night we got together in the limo. There's nothing else, she packed and took it all with her in that backpack. I close the drawer quickly and pull open the next one, and can't take anymore. Inside is the pair of black drawstring martial arts pants that she wore when she was relaxing or working out, and I walk away, leaving the drawer open.

  The lights deeper in the loft aren't on, but I can see the post in the middle that Katrina had wrapped in padding and tires, and I punch, letting my rage and sadness out. It's not enough, and I punch again, the pain of my knuckle smashing against the unforgiving tire rubber helping a little. Another punch, and another punch, each blow letting me vent my emotions. I feel something split on my hand, and it helps more, so I punch harder and harder. I'm gasping, crying, sobbing maybe, but I keep hitting the tires until I can't anymore, and then I punch a few more times before I drop to my knees. The lights overhead turn on, I guess Andrea's found a light switch somewhere, and I see that the tires in front of me are glistening, dark with my blood, and I drop my head, puking at the horror of the image in my mind of Katrina's head exploding as the last bullet blew out the back of her skull.

  Andrea comes over, kneeling next to me, and rests a tiny hand on my back. “It's okay, Jackson. I'm here for you, too.”

  “Why?” I sob, my stomach turning again before I retch. There's nothing inside anymore, just hot, burning stomach juices that barely splatter out. “Why, Andrea?”

  “Because Peter DeLaCoeur is a snake who deserves to spend the rest of his life in jail,” Andrea says softly, but with steely intensity. “That's why she died, and why I'm here.”

  I sit back, and look at my half-sister, who's spent most of her life in a sort of uneasy rivalry with me, but in this instant, there's no taunting, there's not even the sort of dismissive mentor look she had when lending me books on business. Instead I see a supportive, caring person, and in her blue eyes, I see something that I've missed and overlooked for too long. Peter and Margaret might be my parents, but they're sure as hell not my family. Andrea is. “What can we do?”

  Andrea stands up and offers her hand. She takes my hand, and there's a deceptive strength in that grip and steel in her eyes as she helps me to my feet. “The first thing we do is get you cleaned and bandaged up. You busted the hell out of your hands, and we need to bandage them. Then... then we’ll discuss what I've been doing for the past six years.”

  “What do you know of my childhood, Jackson?”

  I've taken off my shirt, washing it out in the sink before hanging it from the end of Katrina's bed frame, while Andrea's changed as well, pulling on one of the t-shirts that Katrina kept in her dresser. Despite Katrina being slender and liking shorter shirts, she was still a lot taller than Andrea, and the shirt hangs past her waist, looking almost oversized on my half-sister. I'm sitting on the bed, my hands stinging from the disinfectant and half dozen bandages that we borrowed from downstairs. Andrea is in one of the chairs, the blanket from the bed wrapped around her shoulders to let her stay warm.

  “You came to us when you were still really young. I can't remember exactly when, but I was young myself, I couldn't have been more than three or four.”

  Andrea nods. “I was brought here from Osaka when I was eighteen months old. The Japanese government was pissed, but since I was brought over on an American passport by agents of my biological father, there was little they could do. I'm an American citizen after all, with a birth certificate from the State of Louisiana even. But that's beside the point. What do you remember about my mother?”

  I shake my head. I was so little. “Nothing. I mean, I know some rumors, but I personally remember almost nothing. I know she had an affair with Peter, obviously, but other than rumors, I can't say.”

  Andrea nods. “I remember almost nothing, too. My grandmother got to send me a few packages when I was smaller, and before my grandparents died, I got a few things. In my room at the house, I have a picture of my mother, back in '94 before she had me, maybe before she met Peter, I'm not sure. She's wearing her student chef's whites, and posing in front of Emeril Legasse's restaurant. In the photo she's throwing up a peace sign of course, since that's something Japanese people often do when they get their pictures taken. She looked so excited and happy, and it was from wanting to read the letters from my grandmother about my mother that led to my own studies of Japanese. But what really drove me was trying to figure out who she was, and why she died.”

  “What happened?” I asked. “I mean, I heard she committed suicide.”

  “That's what the official story is, and after the arguments that she had with my grandmother and grandfather, it's a pretty reasonable story,” Andrea says painfully. “My grandmother wrote about her eternal shame and regret that she and my mother argued about her affair with Peter the night before she died, and that she said that I shamed the family. Then there was the note that they found in my mother's dress, tucked into the belt, where she said that she could no longer live with the same.”

  “You said official story. There's something more?” I ask, and Andrea nods. “Tell me, please.”

  “Peter was involved. I mean, besides the fact that I was kidnapped out of Japan and brought here, he was involved. I've never been able to prove that he had a direct hand in my mother's suicide beyond a phone call where he basically told her that she was outta luck, but I have my suspicions. What I do know is that my mother's death wasn't a suicide.”

  “How?” I ask, and realize I may sound like I'm doubting her. “I mean, how'd it happen?”

  “Security camera footage showed two men visiting the apartment building where my mother and I lived. It took me a very long time and a lot of connections to obtain it. Later, both men were busted by the cops on an unrelated charge, but what was in
teresting was that the handwriting of one of the men perfectly matched the handwriting used in my mother's suicide note. Even the grammar and word choice was the same. My mother spoke and wrote in the Kanto-style dialect of Japanese, and from some of her earlier school writings that my grandmother sent me, she had pretty, almost dainty writing. The note was written in a heavy, sloppy hand, and was written in Kansai-ben, the Osaka style of Japanese. The differences are small to foreigners, like using ore instead of watakushi to refer to herself, but I really applied myself with my language studies... there's no way that Aiko Mori wrote that note.”

  I gawk, and Andrea nods. “Yeah. So you see why I've got a sword to grind against Peter DeLaCoeur as well. For the past six years, I've been pretty much doing the same thing Katrina was, gathering information. I was just looking to finish my MBA before taking him down. When I heard about what you were up to, I approached Nathan when he came back by himself today. He told me where to find you.”

  I should be pissed that she's kept this secret from me for so long, but I'm not. Instead, another question comes to mind. “So why have you called me oniichan for most of my life, if you hate the family so much?” The Japanese term for older brother is probably only one of maybe five Japanese words I know. However, I know I'm the only person Andrea uses familial Japanese terms with. Peter hates it when she speaks Japanese since he doesn't understand it and never bothered to learn any, and Andrea would never call Margaret her mother in any language.

  Andrea gets up off the chair and comes over, sitting next to me on the bed. She puts an arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Oh Jackson, I've never hated you. You've pissed me off plenty of times and disappointed me, sure. Mainly it hurt that you spent so much of your life living in denial of who we are and what sort of family we lived in. But I have never hated you. You're my big brother, and I love you. Right now you need my help, and I'm going to be here for you.”

  I hug Andrea back, fresh tears coming to my eyes, and soon I'm crying again. I wish the little waif in my arms was about six or eight inches taller, that the long black hair was short and brown, and that Andrea was Katrina. Still, it helps, and Andrea holds me back, letting me vent. When it's over, she kisses my forehead, and gives me a smile. “Better?”

  I nod, and wipe at my nose. “Yeah. I think I need to invest in some tissues though. I don't see any. I don't think Katrina ever cried.”

  “I bet she did,” Andrea counters. “I've done plenty of crying myself. Now, you know why I'm here. I've got some computer skills too, and with your permission, I want to combine what I've gathered with what Katrina's got. Together, I'm certain there's enough dirt there to put Sam Grammercy and Peter DeLaCoeur away for the rest of their lives. There has to be.”

  “Let's do it,” I say, anger filling my voice. “I don't care about the money anymore. Those bastards took Katrina from me, they need to rot.”

  “And our money?” Andrea asks.

  I shrug. “Doesn't fucking matter anymore. Maybe I'll take what I can before the cops move in, I'm sure I can do some wire transfers or get cash advances on my credit cards that he's paying for, but I honestly don't give a fuck. I'll walk out tomorrow with five bucks in my pocket if I have to.”

  “Well, we can do more than that,” Andrea says with a chuckle as she gets off the bed and goes over to Katrina's computer. She sits down and takes a look, and I can tell, she's impressed. “Whoa... this thing is fucking... I think we could rename this thing Skynet.”

  “Can you access it?” I ask, and Andrea nods. “Really?”

  “I know more than just business. This might take a little while though, unless you know the system, too.”

  I shake my head, chagrined. “I saw her use it, but she didn't tell me much.”

  Andrea flips a switch, and the computer hums to life, a glow forming from the flat panel display. “Well then, this might take a little while to get into. Do you have any money on you?”

  I pat my hip pocket, and pull out my wallet. I honestly wasn't even sure it was there until I take it out. Opening it up, I see a few bills. “Maybe fifty bucks, why?”

  “Because I skipped lunch to argue with Nathan and find this place, and I'm hungry. I saw a minimart on the corner if you turn left when you hit Market Street. Think you'd be willing to make a grub run while I get cozy with the HAL-9000 here?”

  “Skynet, HAL-9000... you're a geek, Andrea.”

  She turns and gives me a smile, and I realize something. I love her, too. “Thanks, oniichan. Take a hat or something, I can hear the rain still.”

  It actually takes Andrea three weeks to crack the system, during which I can do little more than sit around, read the business books that she brings me, and fuck around on my own laptop. Nathan gives me a call once in a while, but my cover story of just being pissed at Peter is holding pat, and Peter hasn't invested too much effort in finding me yet.

  I also start exercising again, copying the movements that Katrina and I went through, and trying some more that I make up from the stuff laying around the loft. I find that the pain of the exercise eases the pain in my heart, and that in doing so, I find myself closer to Katrina. I can understand more about what she put herself through for so many years, and I can begin to understand what drove her to become the woman she was. It's both sad and beautiful, and as I drop the sandbag that I've had over my shoulders, not all the water dripping down my face is sweat.

  “You keep pushing yourself like that, you're going to end up with rhabdo,” Andrea says from over by the computer, where she's been working for four hours. “I'd prefer to not have to drag you to the hospital on the back of my scooter.”

  “You brought my car today,” I reply, dropping down into a burpee and kicking out before pulling back in and jumping, touching the beam that's over my head. I'd found the two rope handles that Katrina had tied around the beam yesterday for pullups, and realized there were so many little things I still wanted to find. “Besides, rhabdo mostly hits untrained individuals.”

  “And athletes who refuse to accept that their bodies may not be as strong as their minds,” Andrea notes, turning back to the computer and typing away. “I'm just saying, don't kill yourself over there.”

  I ignore her and finish my set, stopping when the world swims in front of my eyes and I'm fighting for my balance. Enough, it's enough for now... maybe I can do more later. “How's the process going?”

  “I’ve nearly... got it!” she says, sticking her hands in the air.

  I stagger over, sitting on the bed while Andrea clicks away madly with the mouse, typing occasionally. “You're not going to believe all that she's got here. Holy shit, I thought I had information.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, staring at the blanket while the world still swims. I lie back, and the spinning slows enough that I can focus on what Andrea's saying.

  “I mean, I have gigs of data, lots of documents, and I thought I had a lot. But Katrina... it's going to take me a while, but this thing... she's got just one file folder named 'PDLC' here that has over a terabyte of data. That's like twenty full-length Blu-Ray movies of information.”

  “What's it all say?” I ask, covering my eyes. It helps some more, and I think that maybe in a minute or two I might even be able to sit up. “I think I might puke.”

  “That happens,” Andrea says dismissively. “As for the info... I haven't had time to go through this all yet. Like I said, if this was a movie, it'd run for about forty hours, just this one folder. I don't even know what the hell else is still on here. I need time.”

  “Take all the time you need,” I reply, sitting up slowly. “Is the computer locked?”

  Andrea taps, and shakes her head. “It can be. What do you want the password to be?”

  I think for a minute, and know there's only one answer that fits. “Make it... Hagakure. It was her favorite book.”

  Andrea types, then nods. “Done. First letter capitalized. Oniichan, I know that this is important to you, and it is to me too, but I
've got some other work I need to get done. Can I leave this in your hands, to start going through the data?”

  “Sure, I'll stick to the PDLC files only though.”

  “Good. By the way, when I come back tomorrow, I'll bring another book for you to read. It's a good one on business evaluation.”

  I give Andrea a confused look. “Why?”

  Andrea grows serious as she gets up and grabs her backpack. “Jackson, we're going to take down Peter. But the best way you can honor Katrina... is to be everything she saw inside you, the same potential I see. I won't let you waste it.”

  I barely sleep that night, absorbed by the data that I read. Andrea was right, Katrina's pure amount of gathered information is staggering. I start with the documents, mostly a lot of PDFs, but also text files, copied e-mails, and all sorts of other data. The names I see attached to each are disgusting, and I realize finally just how far deep down the rabbit hole I've been living.

  He may not have been responsible for Katrina's father, but Peter's had at least a dozen other men killed. Some of them had families, and some of them were for simply business reasons. Some of them, perhaps the most disgusting ones, were ones he had killed merely because they pissed him off.

  After my eyes go bleary from reading text, I switch to some of the audio and video files. I listen to intercepted conversations as Peter tells people what to do to maintain their criminal empires. Most of them sound like Katrina was using some sort of microphone or listening device to get them, and I wonder just how many years she crept around, gathering her data before she was sure she was ready to strike.

  Finally, just before dawn, I drop off into a light doze, waking up when I hear someone knocking on the door again. I sit up, realizing I've spent the whole night in front of Katrina's computer, and check the time, seeing that it's nearly eight in the morning. I've only been asleep for about four hours.

  “Yeah?” I ask at the door, opening the peephole. I see a black woman outside, tall and statuesque, with intense eyes and a solemn cast to her face. She's pretty, but she wears the same gravity on her face that I've come to recognize on my own face in the mirror. “Who are you?”