There is no quirk indicating that he’s well aware his father was killed to cover up a ring of money laundering and embezzlement reaching even the most pristine banks of Luxembourg.
No twitch to signal that he knows his mother was killed because she got too close to the truth.
No tic to alert them that the only thing on his mind is pure vengeance.
My sister and I are going to live in Monaco with our aunt. We’ll no longer be wealthy, even in that playground of the rich and famous, but that’s fine. I’ve learned there are more important things than wealth.
Things like intelligence…cunning…ruthlessness.
Power.
Just like the sharks from the book my father gave me when I was younger, I’ll move with stealth and determination, progressing with a single-minded focus on my prey.
Then I’ll strike.
And just like the shark in his territory, when I’m done, I’ll be more formidable and merciless than anyone in this sea of ours.
Especially with those who dare to get in my way.
Part I The Prey
Chapter One Sloane
Forty days.
How very biblical.
But there’s nothing pious about what I’ve been hired to do.
Hired. There’s another misnomer. Coerced. Blackmailed. Threatened. Those would be more fitting labels.
I have forty days to save my brother’s life. And let’s face it, mine as well. The kind of man my brother Theo caught the attention of doesn’t take prisoners.
I put both of them firmly out of my mind as I stare out at the decadent vibrancy of the city spread out before me. Serpentine roads winding past gorgeous, brightly-hued stucco buildings, all leading down to where the real action happens near the marina.
I just arrived this morning, but I already think Monte Carlo is beautiful, a place I would have loved visiting under any other circumstances. I had to fly into Nice, France, then catch a train here, since, much to my surprise, there is no airport in Monaco.
The irony is, my life as a corporate attorney, especially one trying to make partner, would have never allowed me the time off to visit the city.
Now I have forty days.
Not that I plan on using them all.
Get what I need, then get out. That’s the plan. After all, that’s what I do for a living—finding that needle in a haystack to make the best possible deal for the financial clients of Douglas & Foster.
But Magnus Reinhardt is hardly Bennett Financial, Credit Suisse, Bank of America, or even the former Gaultier Financial.
He’s not nearly as big.
But as an entity, he is…big.
I’ve done my research, so I know enough about the man to make that claim. Not only is he a six-foot-five, pentathlon competitor (two-time world champion), he’s publicly worth over a billion dollars. Privately—secretly—worth much more than that.
I stare down at the marina. Even from up here, I can see his yacht, a sleek, dark gray, predatory-looking thing that stands out among the rest. It isn’t the biggest or most ostentatious—several visiting sheiks and oligarchs have already filled those slots—but it is the most formidable.
The Mako. Presumably named after the shark.
A fitting name for the property of a man many people call The Shark. Having learned everything I can about Magnus, I’m still not sure whether it’s with regard to his ruthless business dealings or his insatiable appetite for more of everything.
Monte Carlo is just one of his residences. He also owns homes in New York, London, Luxembourg, São Paulo, and Singapore. He habitually frequents many more cities beyond that. There isn’t a place on Earth he hasn’t made a business deal.
Considering how many pies the man has his fingers in, one would think he’d have had his fill by now. But he doesn’t stop. After one deal, he’s on to the next, constantly moving.
Like a shark.
Or at least he used to. Over the past year, he’s been quietly selling off his assets, filling the collective mind of the financial world with all sorts of speculation. Every dinner party he hosts, every trip he takes to a new locale, even the events he attends all create new buzz about what he’s planning on doing with the cash reserves he’s been piling.
And I need to be the woman to figure it out before all of them. This isn’t a needle in a haystack; it’s a needle locked in a vault that only Magnus has the code to.
I know he’s currently here in Monte Carlo.
The sixty-four thousand dollar question is, what is he up to while he’s here? Or perhaps I should call it the ten-million-dollar question, considering that’s the amount that got me into this mess in the first place.
More than likely, Magnus is in his massive home up in the hills, which is massively well-guarded. Or he could be staying in one of the luxury hotels for which this city is famous. Heaven knows a handful of them are probably at least partially owned by one of his shell corporations.
Then, of course, there’s his yacht, larger than most homes, and probably far more luxurious. I’ve seen some of the crew running around on board with the sort of efficient briskness that harkens an upcoming visit from the owner.
It’s just as good a place to start as any.
I quickly make my way down the sidewalk until I’ve reached an area near the marina. I stare out at the Mako as I slowly stroll past luxury shops. Access to the docks is guarded by a single policeman. Such security seems improbably minimal, considering the total value of what lies beyond it. For my purposes, it might as well be as well-guarded as Fort Knox. I’m certainly not going to create an international incident by trying to con my way past him.
I detour to the nearby line of outdoor seating areas outside of the row of bars that are probably party-central come nightfall. At just before eleven o’clock in the morning, the padded cushions are just beginning to appear on benches and chairs and lounge seats.
I casually stroll along the slightly raised platform until I catch a man putting
