Three Weeks

“...we’ve got news on your father’s death.”

The cold night air outside Helms Cove hit Victoria like a slap. She didn't gasp or scream. She just stood there by the open door of her car, her silver-gray eyes fixing on Kany.

"Get in," Victoria said, her voice dropping to a flat, hard whisper.

The moment they were inside the armored sedan, Kany handed over a secure flash drive. Victoria plugged it straight into her dashboard terminal. She expected to see a schematic or a financial leak. Instead, pixelated, leaked medical footage filled the screen. It was an underground clinic. Her father was on a gurney, being wheeled into surgery.

"He wasn't sick, Kany," Victoria murmured, her fingers tightening on the edge of the leather seat.

"Look at the autopsy file, Boss," Kany whispered, her hands shaking as she pulled up the secondary scans.

Victoria stared at the display. There was no charred car metal, no external blast marks. The scans showed a microscopic device that had been surgically implanted near his heart during a routine procedure.

It wasn't a standard bomb; it was a micro-explosive that triggered a localized chemical reaction, destroying his internal structure completely to erase any traceable DNA.

A heavy, suffocating silence filled the car. Victoria didn't throw her laptop or shout. She just closed the screen, her breathing slow and deliberate. But the look in her eyes was terrifying.

"Someone from the inner circle did this," Victoria said, her voice completely dead of emotion. "They turned him into a mobile weapon so I couldn't prove anything. We’re moving everything to the West Coast lab tonight. Tell Giordano he starts immediately."

—

The next three weeks were miserable.

The subterranean cave on the West Coast was freezing, smelling constantly of damp stone, ozone, and burnt copper wiring. There were no luxury amenities. Victoria spent her days on the metal catwalk above, surviving on black coffee and secure phone calls, hunting for the name of that underground clinic.

Down below, Giordano was a mess. His expensive shirt sleeves were rolled up, his hands were covered in carbon smudges, and he looked thoroughly sick of the cave. He dropped a heavy wrench onto the metal table, the clang echoing loudly.

"You know, Victoria," Giordano called up, squinting through the glare of the work lamps. "AdTech has a penthouse with heated floors. Right now, my toes are numb, and you’ve been staring at me like a vulture for forty-eight hours."

Victoria didn't look up from her tablet. "You have two weeks left, Giordano. If you're cold, work faster."

Giordano let out a dry, irritated laugh. He grabbed a towel, wiped his hands, and walked up the iron stairs to the catwalk. 

He didn't do a smooth mafia glide; he looked exhausted. He leaned against the railing near her, bringing the smell of solder and cheap coffee with him.

"Your guards look like they want to shoot me," he muttered, glancing at her men before looking back at her. "And you look like you haven't slept since Tuesday. Who are you hunting?"

"None of your business," Victoria said flatly.

"Look, I'm the one rebuilding a live Soviet core down there," Giordano said, his tone getting serious, dropping the playful corporate attitude. "If someone used a micro-cellular destroyer on your old man, they aren't hiding in the streets. 

They're probably sitting in your boardroom. You're looking the wrong way."

"How did you know about that?"Victoria finally turned her head, her gray eyes locking onto his. The proximity was tense, but it wasn't a romance movie—it was two tired, dangerous people looking for leverage.

Giordano shrugged, "How I knew doesn't matter."

"If I find out your company had anything to do with that clinic's data," Victoria said softly, "I will test this device on you first."

Giordano stared at her for a second, then shook his head with a grim smile. "My hands are clean. But hey, if it makes you feel better, I just cracked the quantum cipher on the trigger. The core is stable."

Before she could answer, Bruce walked into the lower level, looking incredibly stressed, holding a digital diagnostic monitor.

"Boss," Bruce called up to Giordano. "The casing framework is ready. We need to run the final telemetry check before we seal the briefcase."

"Great. Back to the dungeon," Giordano grumbled, turning to walk back down the stairs.

As he walked, he idly tapped his matte-black Montblanc pen against his palm—a restless habit he'd picked up over the last week. Victoria watched him go. He was annoying and entirely too smart, but he was delivering exactly what she needed.

By the end of the third week, the heavy silver briefcase sat on the central table. It was finished. Compact, armored, and completely lethal.

Victoria walked down the stairs, her boots thudding against the concrete. She looked at the finished EMP, feeling a cold weight lift from her chest.

"It's done," Giordano said, leaning back against a tool bench with his arms crossed. He looked exhausted but proud of the machine. "Perfectly calibrated. You can shut down a small city with that thing."

Victoria nodded toward her guards, who carefully lifted the briefcase. She looked back at Giordano, her face softening just a fraction. "Your final wire transfer will clear tomorrow."

"Good. Because I need a three-day shower and a real bed,"  Giordano muttered, stretching his back. "What about our dinner tomorrow at Aces and Ales? Are we actually celebrating, or are you just going to make me sign more paperwork?"

Victoria gave a small, genuine smile—the first one he’d seen in three weeks. "No paperwork tomorrow, Giordano. 10 PM. Get some rest."