Page 18 of Filthy Little Fix
My jaw clenches. Interruptions. That's all I've had lately. "I don't care what the fuck it is. Talk to IT and get back to work. That shipment from the Newark port isn't going to clear itself."
Marco and Vinny nod, going back to messing with wires, while Ruslan gives a sideways smirk, putting away his knife. "Consider it done, boss. We're on it. IT will fix it."
I say nothing. They know it better be fixed soon—we already have enough problems with this infiltrating rat.
I turn to continue on my way. The sound of the stupid beat follows me to the car, pounding in my ears. A mere inconvenience. An irritating glitch. Nothing major. At least that's what I try to tell myself.
I head out to the underground parking garage. This beat has already haunted my nightmares. For the past week, my men's sound system has been particularly insistent on refusing to stop playing it, and for days now, that duck song has refused to leave my head. I reach my armored Cadillac Escalade and get in, trying to put any other melody in place of that one. The sound of the engine is one of the few things that still brings me some comfort.
The drive to the penthouse where Dmitry and Svetlana are waiting is short, but every red light feels like an eternity. I have important matters to resolve with my siblings. Matters that, suddenly, are becoming more complicated.
I arrive at the building, go up the private elevator, and, seconds later, the door opens directly into the living room. Dmitry is already seated at the polished ebony table, his suit impeccable and his analytical gaze fixed on his tablet. He barely landed from Rome yesterday, after weeks of closing deals in Eastern Europe. Svetlana, more relaxed in a silk blazer, stands by the window, observing the Philadelphia skyline with her arms crossed.
"Finally, the crown prince deigns to appear," Dmitry says. He looks up from the tablet, and that clever glint he's always had is there. "I thought I'd have to send Luca to pick you up again."
I roll my eyes. "And I thought you'd pretend for longer that your business in Europe was more important than the mess you left here, Dima."
Svetlana turns from the window, her ice-green eyes fixed on us. "Stop it, both of you. I just got back from a hell of a flight, and the last thing I need is to hear you two bickering." She pulls the nearest chair back and sits down, sliding her tablet onto the glass top. "We have problems."
Dmitry adjusts his shirt collar. "Sveta's right, Dante. Problems. And not the usual ones." He pushes the tablet towards me, the screen displaying a series of free-falling graphs. "Our maritime shipments. Over the past five days, we've had inexplicable delays in Rotterdam and Hamburg. Documentation lost in the customs system, misaddressed containers, and now, the New York port tracking system has started showing random glitches. It seems someone is playing with our numbers."
Svetlana continues for him, "And that's not all. The latest report from the Atlantic City casino shows a discrepancy in payouts from some slot machines. The number of errors in transferring funds to gamblers' accounts is growing. Nothing big enough to cause panic, but enough to raise red flags for anyone who knows where to look. Almost like… warnings."
I frown. These aren't mere inconveniences. This is targeted. "What did IT say?"
Dmitry shrugs, and the smirk vanishes. "They say it's a series of bugs on the servers, maybe a new virus. But the intensity and frequency suggest something more. No one can identify the origin. It's like a ghost in the machine."
A ghost in the machine. Familiar phrase. "About that," Dmitry continues. "We do have a little virtual rat."
"Is it because of him?" Svetlana asks. "The one you're hunting internally."
"It would make sense," Dmitry says. "Such a…refinedattack... with small interruptions, almost a game of patience. It doesn't look like traditional competition. They're more about breaking legs, not messing with Excel spreadsheets."
But no. It doesn't feel right to me. "The rat is responsible for our information breach to the Malakovs. A breach that until now went unnoticed. I don't see where the Malakovs would gain from this."
"Weakening your competitors is an advantage in itself," Svetlana says. "If the rat knows you've discovered him, it would make sense to make his attacks more aggressive. Only it would be foolish. Having a rat is only known by a very select group of people."
"And our security assets?" I ask. My voice comes out more controlled than my mind. "The new defenses we implemented after that incident with the Malakovs?"
Dmitry shakes his head. "Intact. That's what puzzles me. There are no signs of a major breach, of a direct attack. It's as if... someone is poking us with a toothpick just to annoy us."
My jaw clenches. Poking.Annoy.
This isn't a mere bug. This is personal. And that fucking idiotic music is still playing in my head.
I stare at the tablet screen, the free-falling graphs blurring red in my vision. That damned sound from the security room, the duck voice repeating the same meaningless phrase.
One week. One week without that aberration, and now everything seems… wrong. Too full of a noise that shouldn't be there.
Fuck. If it was him... It would be the worst humiliation of all. He drove me insane, made my body react in ways I didn't understand, and now he was hunting me withpranks? That aberration, thattrash, daring to provoke me even from a distance.
"Are you alright?" Dmitry says. That softened voice, coming from him, is very rare. I must be showing everything. I don't take my eyes off the tablet.
"Just tired," I say. "I can't stand that fucking music anymore."
Svetlana doesn't understand anything. She says, "What music?" and Dmitry suddenly slams his fist on the polished ebony. He says, with sorrowful animation, "You too?!"
My head spins. "What do you mean, 'you too'?"
