The President’s Favorite Sin

Damien: “Say it again.” I rested my elbows on the table and watched the man standing across from me. He swallowed. Around us, the clubhouse had gone quiet. No music. No laughter. Even the old refrigerator behind the bar seemed louder than usual. I hated repeating myself. “I said the money was transferred, President.” “Then why is the account short?” His gaze flicked toward Silas before returning to me. That was his first mistake. Looking for someone else to save him. I leaned back in my chair. “I’m asking you a question, Mark.” “I don’t know.” I nodded slowly. “That’s unfortunate.” He shifted his weight. His hands were trembling, and the sight irritated me more than it should have. I’d given him three days to explain the missing twenty-eight thousand dollars. Three days to bring me an answer instead of excuses. Now he stood in my clubhouse, sweating through his shirt, hoping a lie would become convincing if he repeated it often enough. “Check his locker,” I told Rocco. Mark’s face changed. There it was. Fear. Rocco left the room. I didn’t need to watch him go. My attention stayed on Mark. “You had three days,” I said. “You had access to the books, the transfer records, and every opportunity to tell me the truth. Instead, you walked into my clubhouse and wasted my time.” “I didn’t steal from you.” “That’s not what I asked.” “Damien, please—” The use of my first name made the men around the table shift. I stood. Mark stopped talking. I wasn’t particularly tall compared to some of the men in my club, but I had never needed height to make a point. I knew exactly how long to hold someone’s gaze and how little I needed to say. “Twenty-eight thousand dollars disappeared from a business carrying my name. Someone altered the records. Someone approved a transfer that shouldn’t have existed.” I stepped around the table. “And you want me to believe you know nothing?” “I can explain.” “Then do it.” His mouth opened. Nothing came out. I waited another five seconds before turning away. “Take him outside. He doesn’t touch another account until I know what happened.” Rocco returned with Mark’s locker key and a folded bank receipt. He placed both on the table. The receipt carried the amount of the missing transfer. The account number belonged to Mark. I looked at him again. “Get him out of my sight.” The men moved immediately. Mark started protesting as they escorted him through the door. I ignored him. If he had an explanation worth hearing, he could provide it after I finished examining the evidence. Silas remained beside the table, studying the receipt. “Twenty-eight thousand isn’t enough to explain the way he reacted,” he said. “No.” “You think someone else is involved?” “I think people become careless when they believe I’m too busy to notice.” I took the receipt from him and examined the transaction date. Three days earlier. The same afternoon Caleb had asked me to approve a series of vendor payments. I stared at the date for a moment, then folded the receipt. My brother handled several of the club’s legitimate business accounts. He was good with people, better than I was at making strangers comfortable. Numbers bored him, but he understood money well enough to know where it went. I pushed the thought aside. Caleb was many things. Stupid wasn’t one of them. “Pull the last sixty days of transactions,” I told Silas. “Every business. Every vendor. I want anything unusual on my desk by tomorrow morning.” “And Caleb?” My eyes lifted. “What about him?” “Some of the transfers went through accounts he manages.” I held Silas’s gaze until he looked down at the receipt again. “Then we’ll examine those too.” I didn’t make exceptions for family. At least, that was what I had always told myself. By nine that evening, I had read through enough financial records to develop a headache. I hated paperwork. I hated people who made paperwork necessary even more. The clubhouse was louder now. A few members occupied the bar, arguing over a football match on the television. Someone had turned up the music. The smell of whiskey, leather, and fried food hung in the air. I closed the folder and rubbed a hand over my jaw. The numbers didn’t fit. Some payments had been duplicated. Others carried reference numbers that led nowhere. Individually, the amounts were small enough to escape attention. Together, they suggested a pattern. Someone had been moving money through the business network. I called Caleb. He answered on the fourth ring. “What’s wrong?” “I’m looking at the vendor payments you approved last month.” A pause. “Which ones?” “The ones that don’t make sense.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That’s helpful, Damien.” “I’m not in the mood for games.” “Neither am I. I’ve been dealing with the Westbridge suppliers all afternoon. If there’s a problem with an invoice, send it to me.” “I will.” “Good. Anything else?” I looked at the folder. “Not yet.” “Then stop calling me like I’m one of your prospects.” The line went dead. I stared at my phone. Caleb had always resented the way I spoke to him. He wanted the privileges of being a Cross without the inconvenience of being answerable to me. Sometimes I wondered whether I’d made that worse by refusing to treat him differently from the other men. Then I remembered how quickly people became careless when they thought they were untouchable. I put the phone down. Tomorrow, I’d examine the vendor accounts myself. Tonight, I needed a drink. The bar downstairs was packed when I entered. I took my usual seat near the end of the counter. The bartender poured my whiskey without asking. I had barely lifted the glass when a crash came from the other side of the room. A man stood beside a table, glaring at a woman in a fitted black dress. A broken glass lay at her feet. The woman held a receipt in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other. “I told you the bill was wrong,” the man snapped. “And I told you I would correct it if you showed me the receipt,” she replied. “Throwing glasses doesn’t make you right.” A couple of men laughed. The customer stepped closer to her. “Do you know who I am?” She glanced at him, then at the broken glass. “Someone who’s about to pay for that.” The laughter grew louder. I lowered my whiskey. The man looked around the room, searching for someone who would support him. His eyes settled on the Blackthorne patch displayed across the back of a nearby chair. “I’m a friend of the club.” The woman followed his gaze. “Congratulations.” I nearly smiled. Nearly. The man grabbed the receipt from her hand. She snatched it back before he could crumple it. “Touch me again,” she said quietly, “and I’ll make sure the police get a very interesting account of your evening.” He laughed in her face. “You think anyone here is going to take your word over mine?” “I think the security cameras will.” His expression changed. She pointed toward the camera above the counter. “And the one near the entrance. And the one you walked past when you came in.” I set my glass down. Interesting woman. The man noticed me watching and straightened his shoulders. “President Cross. Tell your staff to learn some respect.” I looked at him. “She’s not my staff.” “She works here.” “And?” He blinked. I waited. He had expected me to intervene on his behalf because he wore the right smile and knew the right people. Instead, he found himself explaining why he had broken a glass in my establishment. The woman folded her arms. I glanced at the broken glass, then at the receipt in her hand. “Was the bill wrong?” “Yes,” she said. “Then correct it.” The bartender moved immediately. The man started to protest. I turned my head toward him. “Do you have another complaint?” He shut his mouth. “Good. Pay for the glass and leave.” He looked around, hoping someone would laugh with him. Nobody did. He dropped some cash on the table and walked out. I watched him go, then turned back to the woman. She was already checking the corrected bill. No grateful smile. No attempt to catch my eye. No sudden realization that I had saved her from anything. She had handled herself perfectly well before I opened my mouth. That bothered me more than it should have. “What do they call you?” I asked. She looked up. “Nia.” “Just Nia?” “Do you need my full name for the incident report?” I stared at her. She stared back. A slow, unfamiliar amusement moved through my chest. “Do you always speak to people like that?” “Only when they ask unnecessary questions.” I took another sip of whiskey. “What was wrong with the bill?” “Two drinks were charged twice. I corrected it.” “And the glass?” “He broke it.” “I saw that.” “Then why are we discussing it?” I set the glass down again. Most people found a way to soften their voices when speaking to me. Some became overly polite. Others tried to impress me. The smarter ones measured every word. Nia, apparently, had no interest in any of those options. “Do you know who I am?” I asked. Her gaze moved briefly to the president’s patch on my leather vest. “Yes.” “And?” “And I still don’t understand why you’re asking me about a glass when the man who broke it has already paid.” I studied her face. She wasn’t trying to provoke me. That would have been easier to dismiss. She simply saw no reason to be impressed. “What if I told you I don’t like being questioned in my own bar?” “I’d tell you to stop asking questions you don’t want answered.” For the first time that evening, I laughed. It was brief, more breath than sound, but it surprised me enough that I stopped. Nia’s eyebrows rose. “Did I say something funny?” “No.” “Then you should probably decide what you’re doing.” She turned away to help another customer. I remained at the counter, my whiskey untouched. Silas appeared beside me a few minutes later. “Problem?” “No.” He followed my gaze toward the woman behind the counter. “Ah.” I looked at him. “Don’t.” “I haven’t said anything.” “You’re thinking loudly.” He grinned and walked away. I finished my whiskey and left the bar without speaking to Nia again. I had business to handle, financial records to examine, and a brother whose temper was becoming increasingly difficult to interpret. I did not have time to be distracted by a woman with a sharp tongue and an even sharper stare. I certainly didn’t have time to wonder whether she’d look at me differently if I gave her a reason to. I was halfway through the financial report in my office when Silas knocked. “There’s something you need to see.” He placed a printed invoice on my desk. The amount was insignificant. The vendor name meant nothing to me. The authorization number did. I checked it against the earlier transactions. Same reference pattern. Same unexplained duplication. “Where did you find this?” “Among the payments from the bar’s operating account.” I looked up. “Who handles those records?” “The manager. Nia Bennett.” I leaned back slowly. The woman downstairs. “Bring me the complete account history.” Silas nodded but didn’t leave. “What?” I asked. “If she’s the one who noticed the discrepancies, someone else might notice her.” I looked at the invoice again. “Then we find out who has been watching the accounts.” “And Nia?” I closed the folder. “Keep an eye on the business. Nobody approaches her without my permission.” Silas hesitated. “Because she’s useful?” I met his gaze. “Because someone is moving money through my club, and I want to know why.” He accepted the answer and left. I remained at my desk, studying the invoice. Nia Bennett had entered my evening as an irritating interruption. Now her name sat in the middle of a financial problem I couldn’t explain. I disliked coincidences. And I disliked even more the feeling that something had begun moving beneath my feet before I had decided what to do about it. Tomorrow, I would speak to her again. This time, I would ask the right questions.