That can't be right. There are sanctions placed against doing business in North Korea.
But wait.
I start looking at the transactions in this account. Money inflows from Russia. Outflows to shell corporations that have ties to Iran. Some transactions with businesses are based out of Iraq.
Normally, this kinda stuff would trigger automatic red flags. But I just stumbled onto this account by accident. It was literally on my screen and hidden as a sub-account in such a way that if I hadn't gone line by line, no one would ever have seen it.
I need to tell Derek. He could be in a lot of trouble.
I'm about to send him a text when I realize Nadia told me not to tell anyone.
Not even Derek.
Maybe I should go to her?
I know that's probably the right course of action, but something is stopping me.
Maybe I need to do a bit more work.
Crap, you ever wish you could get a do-over?
I'd do it over and never ask for this assignment to be exciting.
Derek
Why do women do that? They take a few bites of food and say that they're full when they clearly aren't. Their eyes don't lie. Who do they think they're kidding? I can see the way she's looking at this spread. She's holding back, but she wants more.
"I can't eat too much tonight," Alicia says, sitting back in her chair and patting her stomach. "Ever since I've started seeing you, I've been eating such rich foods—I mean there's butter and cream on everything, Derek! Don't you realize I'm going to have an ass the size of Texas if I keep this up?"
We're both laughing at this point.
"Have you taken a good look at your ass in a mirror lately?" I ask. "It's perfect. Now stop complaining and enjoy this."
I've ordered us the Chef's Tasting Menu at Per Se tonight, and our waiter has just brought us the "Oysters and Pearls." The oysters are decadent and topped with tapioca pearls and caviar. I hold one to her lips.
"C'mon," I say. "You know what they say about oysters…"
She takes it from me in one hand. Her fingernails are painted a soft pink and make her hand seem even more delicate than it already does. She smiles and parts her lips. "Okay, just one more."
I watch as she tilts the oyster into her mouth. It slides down her throat in one quick gulp, and as it does, I fight the urge to reach over the table and press my mouth to hers … and her lips…. and her neck.
"Don't get me wrong," she says. "This is amazing—but maybe we should be cooking more. You have a great kitchen. Let's put it to use."
"That's too much of a girlfriend thing to do," I say. And it really is. Where's the magic and romance in that?
"Well … what do you expect? I am your girlfriend."
I'm not exactly sure why, but that comment stops me in my tracks. It's a bold thing to say. I mean, I get it. I do. I know where she's coming from. We've been seeing each other—fucking, eatin
g, and watching movies together nearly every night of the week, but I haven't considered what it all exactly means. And why should I?
“And you were my girlfriend?” I ask. “Anything else I need to know? Just because I really didn’t know you were looking at me as your boyfriend.”
I mean, I have nothing against it. But where was I when she made this decision?
I’m worth several billion dollars. I’ve lived all over the world. I’ll be damned if I get henpecked like a castrated suburban house man.
"Oh really?" she asks. "So what do you call this—us?"