Page 53 of Filthy Little Fix
I walk to my cubicle. My chair. My computer. I don't sit down, just drag the keyboard closer and start typing. The operating system is slow, archaic, but it's a terrain I know.
First, the basics. The terminal. I check the list of background processes, looking for any unknown or suspicious services consuming resources.
Nothing.
Network connections. A command to list all open ports and the IP addresses the computer is sending and receiving data from. I analyze the list. Standard corporate traffic, internal servers, the network printer…
And a persistent, encrypted connection to an IP address that doesn't belong to our infrastructure.
It's subtle, buried under layers of legitimate traffic, disguised as a system synchronization process. A professional job. Sal's work, no doubt, under very specific orders.
The confirmation.
They didn't just buy the damn company; they're monitoring what I do on the company computer.
I analyze the kernel drivers. A keylogger. A screen recorder. A complete surveillance package, so deeply embedded in the system that it would be invisible to anyone who didn't know exactly what to look for, recording every keystroke, every mouse movement, every open window.
I abandon the keyboard. The plastic slides from my fingertips, and the hum of the office, the panic of my colleagues, everything disappears.
They bought the building. They bought my boss. They bought my routine—mycage. And they put a camera in every corner to watch me rattle the bars.
SIXTEEN
DANTE
I want him again.Fuck it.
The image of him at my desk is an addiction. And the idea of him returning to that mediocre life, to that office, is awaste. A waste of that intelligent mouth, that sick mind that only truly comes alive when kneeling for me. I can't stand the thought of seeing him working for someone lesser, answering ridiculous orders, being touched by hands that don't even have the imagination to hurt him properly.
I watched him disappear under Luca's watch after what we did, obeying as if he were just another common employee. A poorly rehearsed charade. I wanted to tear him to shreds instead of letting him go.
I hate it. I hate how he offers me absolute control and, at the same time, steals it from me. It's a masterfucking trick, and I fall for it every time.
That night, after sending Nyx back to his room, I found my capos talking in low voices in the game room. They didn't leave early—they stayed for hours smoking and trying to understand what had happened.
"I've never seen anything like it," Grigory grumbled. "He cleaned the table with several unplayable hands."
"It'shis mind," Ruslan said, tapping a finger against his temple. "The kid was playing us."
Marco, the scar on his neck twisting as he spoke, nodded. "That's why the boss got that way when he brought him to the warehouse," he muttered, glancing around as if Nyx could hear him. "He's a monster. A guy who plays poker like that… you can't just leave him unleashed."
That's when Svetlana walked into the room.
She had been furious since our last argument. She thought I was becoming my father, even with all the clues about how far from normal Nyx was.
"Grigory, Marco, Ruslan. Out," she ordered, without even looking at them.
The three immediately stood up, muttering goodbyes and hurrying out. They knew they shouldn't stick around for a fight between the Volkovs.
"What do you want, Svetlana?" I asked.
"The decision about our asset," she got straight to the point, crossing her arms. "I compared his report with our experts'. It's impeccable. He even caught a thousand-dollar diversion one of Dmitry's capos made. The plan remains exactly as it was; we'll let him return to work on Monday. Maintaining the facade of normalcy is crucial. We monitor him, both digitally and physically, and if he shows any sign of instability or tries anything, we act—perhaps by buying the company he works for to exert more precise control."
Svetlana's plans are always methodical and controlled. They always work, but in this case, it was a bad plan.
"You just heard what they said, Svetlana."
"I heard three men scared because they lost at poker to a kid," she retorted.
