Page 110 of Attraction (Mobsters + Billionaires 3)
We finish the shower, and I carefully dry him off and take him to bed, wondering where I ever got the idea that a virgin couldn’t be a sex god.
* * *
After another dayof fucking interspersed with Netflix murder shows, the outdoors calls us. Ford covers his black eye with makeup and we take a backpack with snacks and walk the block to Central Park. Brody follows at a respectful distance while we meander to Strawberry Fields, with Ford tucked against my side the entire time.
We laze against some trees, picnicking with cut fruit, cheese, wine, and Funyuns—Ford insisted—whiling away the afternoon. Both of us have responsibilities we have to get back to, but Hopper said he needed a few days to finalize the various methods of body disposal.
I’m not exactly the kind to fuck with the artist’s muse. You feel me?
Right as we’re beginning to pack up, Ryder texts me.
Ryder:I’ve got some updates on your secret billionaire agent.
Me:I’m out and about with Ford. You at the office?
Ryder:Yep. Come on over.
I offer to drop Ford off at the apartment, but he insists on coming with me. Ryder meets us at the elevator, and…you gotta love her style. Today she’s wearing black stompy boots, gray camo utility pants, and a black belly shirt. Her makeup carries the theme and is pretty much an ode to the color black. Her face’s hardware collection also seems to be growing, with multiple silver studs in her lips and eyebrows.
I’m not exactly surprised when she eschews the open-concept, couch-and-beanbag meeting areas and instead takes us to a dark room at the end of a hallway. I’m a little proud, to be honest.
When Anthony first met her, she refused to be alone in a room with a man she didn’t know.
Even though she’s antisocial and never accepts the open invite to poker night, she knows she’s safe with us. That she’s family.
“Is this the server room?” I ask, eyeballing the multitude of machines and screens that take up every inch of space, liberally decorated with Funko-Pops.
“Nope. This is my office,” she says, a grin on her black-stained lips.
Grabbing chairs from an adjacent office, we crowd around her largest screen, where she pulls up two pictures of Agent Hughes, one a pimple-faced teenager and the other his government-issued ID.
“I can confirm that Liam Hughes was born William O’Shea.”
“Good,” I nod. “Hughes admitted as much.”
She turns to me, nervously playing with the ring in her lip. “Look, you need to know that the rest of this information was carefully and expensively hidden. I had to call in a couple of favors to get even this much.”
“Tell me.”
“He moved in with his grandparents—Lillian and Connor Robin—when he was seventeen. They live in the same brownstone right off Central Park West that they’ve always lived in.”
“They’re just a few minutes from my building,” I note. “No wonder Hop is always bothering him.”
“His grandmother’s maiden name is Hughes, by the way. She passed while he was in college at Virginia Tech. His grandfather is eighty-seven and rapidly declining from cardiomyopathy.”
“Hopper mentioned that his condition is declining. What else?”
“Graduated salutatorian, criminal justice degree. Quantico right after college. Cut his teeth on white-collar RICO cases before moving on to more violent organizations. He’s spent his whole career building to this point. This is the big show for him.”
“Surely the FBI would love to know his history.”
“Based on the money trail, I suspect his grandfather’s connections got the right people looking the other way. What they did to erase William O’Shea, Jr. and establish Liam Hughes was the best cleanup job I’ve ever seen. What’s weird is aside from these big expenses, and the cost of college, his grandparents never lived extravagantly.”
“Do you think Hughes is aware of the amount of money coming his way?”
Ryder hesitates. “I don’t know. Like, he has to be aware of some wealth, given who his grandfather is. But…he’s definitely only living and budgeting off of his FBI salary. To be fair, his grandfather’s spending habits don’t match that of a billionaire either. Maybe it’s a family trait? Or, hell, maybe he really does like being an FBI agent and doesn’t want to lose the career he’s built.”
“What happens if the FBI does officially find out he’s a one-percenter?”
