My Boss Claimed Me To Protect Me From A Rival—So I Destroyed The Syndicate Myself
Part 2
I forced Tyler to look at the highlighted columns exposing the structural flaws in Craig’s Delaware shell companies.
His entire operation was heavily propped up by a high-interest loan from a notoriously ruthless shadow bank in Zurich.
I explained that an anonymous tip to the SEC regarding his compliance violations would trigger an automatic freeze on his accounts.
The shadow bank would liquidate his assets before midnight, completely dismantling his syndicate without a single innocent casualty.
Tyler stared at the sterile numbers on the page, his dark eyes darkening with a terrifying mix of awe and lethal calculation.
We sat at the massive dining table, the air suffocatingly still, illuminated only by the pale blue glow of my burner laptop.
My index finger hovered over the enter key, the cheap plastic feeling slick and unsteady beneath my cold sweat.
Pressing that button meant crossing a definitive line I could never uncross, transforming me from a passive victim into an active weapon.
I closed my eyes and pressed down, the mechanical clack echoing far too loudly in the silent, cavernous room.
Forty-five agonizing minutes later, Brian’s phone vibrated violently against the marble counter.
His deep voice remained perfectly flat as he confirmed the SEC had triggered the freeze exactly on schedule.
Craig’s credit lines were instantly vaporized, his wire transfers bounced, and his loyal lieutenants were already abandoning ship in a panic.
Tyler crossed the room in two massive strides, his heavy boots completely silent on the thick Persian rug.
He cupped the side of my neck, his calloused thumb stroking my frantically hammering pulse as he whispered that I had done the impossible.
Later that night, the relentless rain battered the floor-to-ceiling windows as the final, brutal news arrived.
The shadow bank hadn’t waited for the SEC investigation to conclude; they had sent a brutal collection team to Craig’s parking garage.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, shivering violently as the heavy weight of a dead man’s blood settled onto my conscience.
Tyler sat on the edge of my bed, wrapping his heavy arms around my shoulders and pulling my back flush against his solid chest.
He forced a glass of aged scotch into my trembling hands, his voice a low, gravelly rasp refusing to let me play the martyr.
He swore he would never let me go, claiming that I understood his terrifying world far better than his own blood ever did.
When the morning sun finally broke over the gritty city skyline, I didn’t feel the crushing panic I had fully expected.
Instead, I walked into the kitchen, drank my bitter coffee, and calmly asked Brian to bring me the zoning permits for Dan’s territory on Staten Island.
But how do you go back to a normal life after you’ve tasted that kind of power?
Part 3
It wasn’t a conscious choice to embrace the power, but rather a slow, terrifying surrender to the reality that she was no longer just an accountant.
Blood and wet asphalt carried a stench that clung persistently to the heavy air inside the Albatross Club, a scent that immediately made Tyler’s jaw tighten.
He kept his large, calloused hands resting lightly on the scarred mahogany surface of the card table, letting the oppressive silence stretch out.
Upstairs, the muffled, heavy bass of the nightclub throbbed relentlessly through the floorboards, vibrating the half-empty glass of rye whiskey at his elbow.
Down in this subterranean room, the air was entirely stagnant, heavily laden with the sharp, acidic tang of spilled liquor and unwashed fear.
Craig dropped into the chair across from him, looking entirely too comfortable in a room that smelled like impending violence.
Craig casually picked a piece of lint off his cheap lapel, smiling a thin, predatory stretching of lips over overly whitened teeth.
He mentioned that Tyler was losing his grip on the South Ports, his grating tenor voice belonging to a much cheaper, less dangerous man.
Three shipments had been delayed that month, and Craig’s men were growing impatient waiting on the docks for their offload.
Tyler didn’t blink, ignoring the familiar, dull ache building behind his left eye, a tension headache born from dealing with loud men who thought volume equaled true power.
Craig was nothing but a parasite, a man who didn’t build empires but merely skimmed off the top of them.
He wore a synthetic pine cologne that mixed violently with an ambition thick enough to choke on.
Tyler replied in a low, flat rumble that the shipments were delayed because the local union had gone on strike.
He reached for his heavy glass, the cold condensation dampening his rough fingertips as he brought it to his lips.
He informed Craig that the strike was directly caused by Craig’s own idiot cousin, who had broken a stevedore’s jaw over a petty dice game.
Tyler suggested that if Craig wanted the crates moving, he needed to leash his own undisciplined dogs.
Craig waved a hand dismissively, his heavy gold pinky ring catching the dim, yellowish light of the single overhead bulb swaying slightly above them.
He called the incident collateral damage, insisting that Tyler’s job was to keep the peace and threatening to take over the dock contracts himself if Tyler couldn’t handle it.
Tyler took a slow, deliberate sip of the rye, letting the cheap alcohol burn roughly and necessarily on its way down his throat.
He set the glass back exactly on the wet ring it had left on the wood, his voice perfectly mild as he challenged Craig to try it.
He wanted to see exactly how much cargo would move once his men started systematically breaking the kneecaps of Craig’s crew.
The tension in the cramped room snapped taut instantly, a physical wire pulled dangerously thin between the two bosses.
Brian, Tyler’s massive shadow of a bodyguard standing silently in the corner, shifted his considerable weight.
The faint, unmistakable creak of Brian’s leather shoulder holster was suddenly the loudest sound in the entire room.
Craig’s greasy smile faltered just a fraction of an inch, briefly revealing the deep cowardice buried entirely beneath his arrogant swagger.
Before Craig could formulate a response that saved his fragile ego without starting a bloody street war, the heavy iron door of the back room clicked open.
Tyler frowned deeply, knowing that absolutely nobody was supposed to interrupt this specific sit-down.
A woman stepped into the room, her presence jarring and entirely out of place.
The harsh overhead light immediately caught the thick dust motes swirling around her as she pushed the heavy door shut with her slender shoulder.
She was struggling significantly with three thick manila ledgers and a large cardboard box overflowing with unorganized taxi receipts.
She wore a faded, beige trench coat that dripped fresh rainwater onto the filthy, sticky linoleum floor.
Her hair, a messy knot of dull brown, was rapidly escaping its plastic clip, clinging damply to her pale cheeks.
Megan, the new forensic accountant Brian had hired three months ago to quietly clean up the syndicate’s shell companies, froze in her tracks.
She realized with terrifying clarity exactly what kind of room she had just accidentally walked into.
The fresh scent of rain and damp cotton washed completely over the stale cigar smoke, a jarringly clean intrusion into an incredibly filthy space.
She didn’t look completely terrified, but rather profoundly annoyed, as if she had just stepped in a muddy puddle she had been actively trying to avoid.
She apologized stiffly, her voice tight as she clutched the heavy cardboard box much closer to her chest.
Her knuckles were completely white from the strain of holding the heavy ledgers.
She explained that Brian had instructed her to bring the Q3 audits directly to Tyler that night, unaware that a meeting was currently in progress.
Tyler felt a sudden, massive spike of irrational irritation, not directed at her, but entirely at the situation itself.
She didn’t belong down here in the dark; she belonged in a sterile office with bright fluorescent lights and a functioning espresso machine.
He kept his tone carefully neutral, instructing her to put the files on the small metal desk in the corner and then immediately go home.
She didn’t argue or hesitate, scurrying toward the desk while keeping her green eyes fixed firmly on the dirty floor.
Her wet sneakers squeaked loudly and awkwardly against the linoleum, an undignified and horribly normal sound in a room built for intimidation.
Craig turned in his chair, his dark eyes slowly and deliberately tracking her erratic movement across the room.
The mild annoyance in Tyler’s chest instantly curdled into something much darker, something prickly, hot, and violently territorial.
He watched Craig’s gaze drop to the curve of Megan’s hips hidden under the damp coat, down to her legs, and back up to her chest as she dumped the ledgers.
Craig leaned back heavily, a slow, greasy smirk spreading across his face as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, making a soft, wet clicking noise.
He murmured loudly enough to ensure Tyler heard every word, asking where Tyler had been hiding her since he assumed the entire crew was ugly.
Megan stiffened instantly, the single piece of paper she was currently holding crumpling slightly within her tense grip.
Tyler felt the stale air completely leave his lungs in a rush of raw, territorial violence.
It wasn’t a romantic rush; it was the exact same primal instinct that made a stray dog bare its sharp teeth over a scrap of bone.
He absolutely despised Craig, hating the way the man looked at the world like it was a cheap clearance rack designed solely for his own amusement.
Craig dragged his thick tongue over his bottom lip, explicitly stating that she was hot and demanding Tyler hand over her phone number.
He flippantly suggested they could negotiate the multi-million dollar dock contracts over drinks with the accountant.
The words entirely bypassed Tyler’s rational, strategic brain, diving straight into the ugly, feral base of his spine.
It was an autonomic reflex driven by years of deep hatred and a sudden, blinding urge to deny Craig absolutely anything he wanted.
He snapped that she was his, the two words hitting the stagnant air with the devastating impact of a gunshot.
Craig’s head snapped back around, his eyes blown wide as the greasy smile instantly vanished from his face.
In the shadowy corner, Brian let out a slow, barely audible exhale that spoke volumes.
By the metal desk, Megan dropped the box of receipts entirely.
It hit the floor with a hollow, echoing thud, sending hundreds of white slips of paper exploding across the dirty linoleum like a flurry of snow.
Tyler stared fiercely at Craig, his jaw clenched so incredibly hard that his teeth physically ached.
The echo of his own venomous voice rang loudly in his ears, a possessive, intimate claim in a violent world where claims only meant blood.
He absolutely couldn’t bring himself to look at Megan in that moment.
The horrific, crushing realization of what he had just accidentally done was already pooling heavily in his gut like swallowed lead.
He hadn’t meant it romantically; he had meant she was his employee, his specific asset, and his personal problem to manage.
But the absolute, venomous possessiveness he had injected into those two words left exactly zero room for any professional interpretation.
Craig cleared his throat suddenly, looking deeply uncomfortable as he raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.
He told Tyler to relax, claiming he hadn’t realized Tyler had a thing for the help and telling him to keep his girl.
Craig stood up abruptly, pulling his cheap coat tight around his shoulders, suddenly very eager to be absolutely anywhere else.
He threw Megan one last, incredibly wary glance before walking out the heavy iron door and slamming it shut behind him.
The silence that rushed in to fill the sudden void was absolutely deafening, heavy with unspoken accusations and mounting panic.
Outside, the storm lashed violently against the single, high frosted window of the basement room.
The sound of the rain was a harsh, rhythmic static that completely failed to cover the agonizing, thick quiet stretching between Tyler and Megan.
Tyler stared blankly at the closed iron door, feeling a cold bead of sweat trace a slow line down his spine beneath his tailored cotton shirt.
He dragged a heavy, calloused hand down his face, the rough stubble on his jaw scratching loudly and aggressively against his palm.
He felt entirely, profoundly stupid for letting his temper overwrite his strategic control.
Behind him, the soft rustle of paper started up again as Megan frantically tried to clean up the mess.
He turned slowly to see her on her hands and knees, frantically gathering the scattered taxi receipts and diner bills into messy piles.
Her wet trench coat was dragging carelessly through the spilled dust and grime of the club floor.
She refused to look at him, her breathing shallow, rapid, and bordering heavily on a full-blown panic attack.
Tyler ordered her to leave it, his voice sounding unexpectedly hoarse and thick in the quiet room.
Megan didn’t stop her frantic movements, her hands shaking violently as she grabbed a fistful of receipts and shoved them haphazardly into the cardboard box.
She stammered that it was fine, obsessively insisting she needed to organize the petty cash logs for October because they were mixed up with September.
Tyler ordered her to stand up, the command coming out much sharper and harder than he had originally intended.
She froze completely, the terror radiating off her small frame in palpable waves.
Slowly, she rocked back on her heels and looked up at him, her face completely pale, the damp hair clinging stubbornly to her cheeks.
She didn’t look swooning or flattered by the possessive display; she looked furiously terrified, a combination that made her green eyes look like shattered glass.
She asked him in a fragile, vibrating wire of a voice if he had just told a ruthless mafia boss that she belonged to him.
Tyler walked slowly over to the desk, his expensive shoes crunching softly on a rogue receipt he had accidentally stepped on.
He stopped just a few feet away from her, towering over her crouched, defensive form.
He absolutely hated the dynamic, hating the smell of his own whiskey breath violently mixing with her rain-soaked clothes.
He tried to correct her, stating he had merely told Craig to back off, though the words tasted exactly like ash in his mouth.
Megan scrambled to her feet, clutching the half-empty box to her chest like it was a piece of tactical body armor.
She shot back that he had explicitly said she was his, completely failing to clarify that she was an accountant or a civilian.
She accused him of making it sound like she was his property, her face flushing a deep, angry, and humiliated red.
Tyler growled that it was a reflex, a defensive flare of anger rising rapidly to cover his own deep embarrassment.
He argued that Craig had been looking at her like a piece of meat, and he had simply shut it down by slapping his own barcode on her.
She stepped boldly toward him, completely forgetting exactly who she was talking to in her righteous fury.
She demanded to know if he had any real idea what he had just done to her safe, quiet life.
She stated she had read the ledgers, she saw the massive disposal fees, and she knew exactly who these violent men were.
She pointed out that he had just told a deeply psychotic rival boss that she was his absolute personal vulnerability.
She was entirely right, and the crushing weight of that reality settled heavily onto Tyler’s broad shoulders.
In his violent life, you never advertised what you cared about; you hid it deeply under layers of concrete and complex shell corporations.
By aggressively claiming her in front of a predator like Craig, he hadn’t protected her at all.
He had painted a massive, glowing, neon target directly onto her back.
Craig couldn’t touch Tyler directly without starting a war, but he would absolutely leverage a mistress to get a much better deal on the South Ports.
Tyler forced a cold, absolute authority into his tone that he didn’t truly feel, insisting he had handled the situation.
He claimed that Craig wouldn’t dare touch her now because he believed she was under Tyler’s direct protection.
Megan let out a fractured sound that was half a hysterical laugh and half a desperate sob.
She mocked the idea of protection, reminding him that she took the public subway to work and bought her groceries at a frequently robbed bodega.
She threw the box violently onto the desk, a few more receipts fluttering sadly down to the dirty floor.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her tired eyes, taking a shuddering, terrified breath that cracked in the middle.
She muttered into her palms that she just wanted to pay off her suffocating student loans and work a quiet desk job.
Tyler looked at her truly, perhaps seeing her fully for the very first time since Brian had hired her three months ago.
She was entirely unremarkable by the plastic, curated standards of the women who usually hung around his expensive clubs.
She had absolutely no cosmetic fillers, no designer labels, just a tired demeanor, ink stains on her fingertips, and a terrifyingly sharp mind for numbers.
But standing right there, trembling with righteous, unadulterated anger and bathed in the ugly yellow light of a criminal’s basement, she felt violently, undeniably real.
He told her softly that she did have a quiet desk job, his voice dropping into a rare, gentle cadence.
She dropped her hands instantly, glaring at him with a fierce fire that completely defied her mundane appearance, and snapped that she didn’t anymore.
Tyler took a deliberate step closer, crowding her slightly, using his physical size to force her to look up and hold his intense gaze.
He desperately needed her to understand the brutal reality of the dangerous cage he had just accidentally locked them both inside.
He explained that Craig talked, and by tomorrow morning, half the syndicates in the city would firmly believe she shared his bed.
If she tried to run, or if she quit the firm, the rivals would assume she was entirely unprotected.
They would violently scoop her off the street just to aggressively interrogate her about the secrets buried in his financial books.
Megan stopped breathing entirely, the last remaining color draining rapidly from her face, leaving her looking sickly and incredibly fragile.
She smelled strongly of cheap vanilla soap and sheer, overwhelming panic.
She whispered a desperate plea, asking him what she was supposed to do now that her life was ruined.
Tyler hated himself in that moment, hating the necessary lie he was about to solidify into absolute truth.
But it was the only strategic play left on the board that guaranteed she kept breathing through the week.
He dropped his voice to a gravelly murmur, instructing her to do exactly what she had always been doing.
She was to come to work, aggressively audit the books, and find the missing money.
But from this exact moment forward, Brian would drive her absolutely everywhere; she was never taking the subway again.
She was not allowed to go to the bodega alone, and she was not allowed to walk the streets unprotected.
He reached out his hand, hovering for a tense second before he gently brushed a damp strand of hair completely away from her cheek.
She flinched violently, a tiny involuntary jerk that burned him deeper than a physical wound.
He locked his dark eyes onto hers, letting the full, crushing weight of the underworld press down on them both.
He told her that if anyone asked, she was to smile brightly and tell them she was exactly what he had claimed her to be.
Morning broke over the gritty city skyline like an ugly, swelling bruise, washing the peeling wallpaper of Megan’s cramped studio in shades of sickly gray.
She hadn’t slept a wink, the cheap percolator on her kitchenette counter sputtering and spitting bitter, burnt-smelling coffee into a chipped mug that she completely ignored.
Brian was standing silently in her narrow hallway, having been there for twenty minutes after delivering three sharp raps at exactly six in the morning.
He stood perfectly still next to her coat rack, a massive mountain of dark wool and silent judgment watching her frantically pack her meager belongings.
He rumbled in a deep baritone that Tyler preferred she bring only absolute necessities, a voice that vibrated in the small space and rattled the framed accounting degree on her wall.
He assured her everything else would be provided, but the hot, sour anger spiking in the back of her throat completely rejected the idea.
She shoved a stack of mismatched socks into a worn canvas duffel bag, her hands shaking violently with a mixture of rage and terror she desperately tried to hide.
She snapped that she didn’t need things provided, insisting she needed her own clothes to maintain whatever fragile grip she had left on reality.
Brian replied softly that her current wardrobe drew a specific kind of attention, painting her clearly as a civilian and therefore an easy target.
He stated that Tyler’s violent associates expected a certain standard, completely dismissing her entire life as a liability.
She aggressively zipped the duffel bag with a harsh, grating sound, feeling as if she were being systematically erased from the world.
Her boring, quiet, and completely safe life was being violently packed into a single bag and left behind forever simply because a man with a gold pinky ring looked at her too long.
She slung the heavy canvas strap over her shoulder, the material digging painfully into her collarbone as she angrily declared they were going to play dress-up.
The tense ride to Tyler’s financial district territory was absolutely suffocating, the back of the armored SUV smelling intensely of polished leather and sharp ozone.
The heavily tinted windows turned the morning commute into a muted, underwater film, isolating her completely from the normal world she desperately missed.
Megan sat rigidly against the door, putting as much physical space between herself and Brian’s massive frame as she possibly could.
They didn’t go to the club; they drove deep into the financial district, pulling into a secure underground garage that echoed with the heavy hum of massive ventilation shafts.
Brian led her silently up a private elevator that opened directly into Tyler’s expansive penthouse.
It was cold, not in temperature, but in aesthetic, featuring vast expanses of slate-gray marble, sharp-edged glass furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
There were absolutely no pictures, no books, and nothing that smelled like a true home; it only smelled like cedarwood cleaner and incredibly empty space.
Tyler was sitting at a massive dining table, an open laptop casting a pale, cold blue glow over his exhausted, hardened face.
He wore a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose the heavy, dark ink of tattoos wrapping his forearms, where snakes and daggers bled into complex geometric patterns.
He looked up when the elevator chimed, the dark, bruised circles under his eyes perfectly matching the exhaustion in hers.
He instructed Brian to put her bag in the guest room, his eyes locking onto Megan with a flat, unreadable brown intensity.
Brian vanished down a long hallway, his heavy footsteps completely muffled by a remarkably thick, expensive rug.
Megan stood completely frozen in the center of the vast living room, gripping the strap of her cheap purse like it was a physical lifeline.
She blurted out that she couldn’t possibly live there, her voice sounding small and fragile in the cavernous space.
Tyler closed the laptop with a sharp click that sounded exactly like a gavel dropping, finalizing a sentence she hadn’t agreed to.
He stated she could and she would, pointing out that her apartment’s fire escape was a complete joke and her front lock could be picked with a simple hairpin.
He told her that until Craig found a new distraction, she was staying exactly where he could see her.
Desperate to cling to her old reality, she lied and said she had a cat that needed feeding.
Tyler didn’t even blink, calmly informing her that she didn’t have a cat, only a peace lily on her windowsill that had been dead for over two months.
He admitted he had read her extensive background check, completely humiliating her and exposing her pathetic lie.
She whispered that he didn’t have to ruin her life, the anger rapidly draining out of her to leave only a hollow, vibrating exhaustion.
She reminded him she was just doing her job, meticulously cleaning his books so he wouldn’t go to federal prison.
Tyler stood up, moving with a heavy, coiled grace, crossing the vast distance between them until he was standing just outside her personal space.
He smelled intensely of expensive espresso and the faint, unmistakable metallic tang of high-level stress.
He admitted he knew that, the unexpected roughness in his voice surprising her, acting as an acknowledgment of guilt rather than a genuine apology.
He owned his mistake, confessing it was a stupid, visceral reaction, but the words were already out there in the dangerous world.
He explained that Craig’s lieutenants were already asking questions at the docks, trying to figure out exactly who she was.
If she was just an accountant, they would kidnap her immediately to forcefully acquire his financial ledgers.
He paused, his strong jaw working as he searched for a word that didn’t taste entirely like poison.
If she was his, he finally admitted, they wouldn’t dare touch her without formally declaring a massive street war.
She clarified, her voice trembling violently, that she was essentially a hostage in his war.
Tyler countered that she was a guest, his gaze dropping to her white, completely bloodless knuckles.
Slowly and deliberately, he reached out, his calloused, incredibly warm fingers gently brushing hers and sending a jolt of static electricity straight up her arm.
He gently pried her rigid fingers loose from the purse strap, a surprisingly tender gesture from a violently dangerous man.
He told her she had free reign of the house, that she could work from there, and that Brian would securely deliver the necessary files.
He stepped back, breaking the intense contact, though the ghost of his heat remained permanently branded onto her cold skin.
He looked away, staring out the massive windows at the rain-slicked city, quietly promising to have someone bring her dinner and suggesting she lock the door if it made her feel safer.
Silk felt exactly like cold water dripping slowly down her spine.
Megan stood rigidly in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the guest bedroom, staring completely blankly at a stunning stranger.
The dress had arrived in a sleek, matte black box exactly two hours ago.
It was a deep emerald green, cut dangerously low in the back, and it clung to her hips in a way that made her feel painfully, uncomfortably visible.
Alongside it sat a pair of impossibly high black stilettos and a velvet case containing a diamond tennis bracelet that definitely cost more than her entire college tuition.
It was Friday night, and the brief grace period of hiding safely in the penthouse was officially over.
Tyler had informed her earlier they were attending a high-stakes dinner at Roses, an upscale Italian place in Midtown that served as neutral ground for the five families.
He explained it was a critical visibility play, insisting that if he kept her hidden, it would broadcast a fatal weakness to his rivals.
He needed the other bosses to physically see her, to understand that he wasn’t afraid to parade his supposed vulnerability directly in front of them.
She meticulously applied a thick layer of red lipstick, her hand steadying out of pure, stubborn spite.
She was absolutely determined not to let these violent monsters see her shake.
When she walked out into the living room, Tyler was waiting patiently by the private elevator.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit that fit him with lethal perfection, a stark contrast to the rough, tired man she had seen drinking coffee for the last five days.
He was the ruthless boss again, the absolute apex predator of his concrete jungle.
He turned at the sharp sound of her heels clicking on the marble, his dark eyes starting at her face, sweeping down the length of the emerald silk, and slowly dragging back up.
The flat, unreadable wall he usually kept firmly in place fractured completely.
For a fraction of a second, his pupils blew wide, darkening his eyes to pitch black as a muscle in his jaw jumped violently.
He finally managed to speak, his voice dropping a full octave and sounding incredibly rough as he deemed the dress adequate.
Megan shot back that it was a bribe, aggressively grabbing her designer clutch and demanding they just get the awful night over with.
Roses was incredibly loud, smelling heavily of roasting garlic, expensive Barolo wine, and melting candle wax.
The exact moment they stepped through the heavy oak doors, the entire atmosphere of the room shifted.
It wasn’t an immediate, dramatic silence, but a subtle, dangerous dampening of the noise as dozens of eyes flicked toward them.
Megan felt a cold, terrifying sweat break out at the base of her neck as they tracked her progress across the dining room.
Tyler’s large hand landed firmly on the small of her back, a possessive grip with his thumb resting against her bare skin where the dress dipped low.
He was radiating intense heat, the touch entirely performative for the watching room, but it sent a confusing, heavy flutter straight through her stomach.
She leaned heavily into it instinctively, desperately seeking the only solid anchor in a room packed entirely full of sharks.
They were seated in a secluded corner booth facing the room, and Tyler slid in right beside her instead of across from her.
He was close enough that their thighs brushed constantly beneath the crisp white tablecloth.
He murmured into her ear, leaning in closely under the guise of an intimate whisper, his hot breath brushing her sensitive neck.
He commanded her to breathe, noting she was entirely too stiff and reminding her to relax her shoulders because she was supposed to be completely in love with him.
She muttered back that she would honestly rather swallow crushed glass, taking a very large gulp of the ice water a waiter had silently deposited.
A low, genuine rumble of laughter vibrated deeply in Tyler’s solid chest, the sound startling her with its surprising warmth.
He conceded the point, gently suggesting she just look bored because pure arrogance read incredibly well in this dangerous crowd.
Halfway through the perfectly cooked veal chop, a heavy shadow fell completely over their table.
Megan looked up to see a man in his fifties wearing a gaudy striped suit, smelling faintly but distinctly of stale cigar smoke.
He had the kind of dead eyes that looked completely behind his own corneas, devoid of any real human empathy.
He slickly greeted Tyler, mentioning a rumor that Tyler had finally acquired some decent taste, proving Craig hadn’t been exaggerating.
Tyler didn’t stand up, nor did he even drop his silver fork.
He merely shifted his considerable weight slightly, angling his broad body to physically shield Megan from the man’s direct line of sight.
He casually insulted Dan, questioning why they had let him off Staten Island for the weekend.
Dan chuckled, a dry, dusty sound that entirely ignored the insult as he leaned uncomfortably closer to Megan.
He asked Tyler to introduce his lovely creature, his tone dripping with condescension.
Megan felt Tyler’s hand tighten warningly on her waist, a clear physical signal to stay quiet and let him handle it.
But the smell of Dan’s stale smoke aggressively reminded her of the cheap cigars her deadbeat, abusive father used to smoke constantly.
It triggered an old, stubborn defiance buried deep beneath her overwhelming fear.
She introduced herself as Megan, her voice clear and carrying perfectly over the low, tense hum of the restaurant.
Dan raised a skeptical eyebrow, noting she provided absolutely no last name.
Megan repeated her name firmly, deliberately setting her expensive wine glass down on the table.
She met his dead eyes perfectly, vividly remembering the extensive ledgers Brian had brought her yesterday.
She remembered a long string of complex shell companies registered to a D. Falcone in Staten Island, companies that were massively bleeding money through terrible logistical planning.
She expressed cool surprise that Dan had the time to socialize, letting a touch of sharp disdain enter her voice.
She pointed out that given the disastrous state of the harbor transit fees this quarter, the overwhelming overhead on his new barges must be a complete nightmare to balance.
The silence at the table was sudden, absolute, and completely deafening.
Dan’s slick, arrogant smile vanished instantly, the color draining entirely from his face, replaced rapidly by a mottled, furious red.
He looked at her not as a piece of meat, but as a genuine, highly educated threat.
He glanced sharply at Tyler, who was staring at Megan with an expression she couldn’t completely decipher, a mix of profound shock and something dangerously close to awe.
Dan spat a bitter farewell and spun on his heel, marching rapidly away from their table.
Tyler slowly lowered his protective hand to his lap, turning to her with his dark eyes locking intensely onto hers.
He asked in a barely audible whisper exactly how she knew about Dan’s barges.
Megan picked up her fork, her hands perfectly steady now as the pure adrenaline flooded her system.
She explained that she read his books, all of them, including the highly classified regional threat assessments.
She stated plainly that Dan was massively over-leveraged and on the brink of financial ruin.
She took a casual bite of her veal, asserting that if she had to be a target, she was at least going to be a highly educated one.
Streetlights cut rhythmic, violently yellow slices across the dark interior of the armored SUV as they drove back to the penthouse.
The heavy engine hummed constantly beneath them, a low vibration that did absolutely nothing to settle the returning nausea swirling violently in Megan’s stomach.
The adrenaline from the restaurant was rapidly bleeding out of her system, leaving behind a cold, incredibly sharp ache in all her joints.
She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the rain sliding erratically down the tinted glass, desperately not wanting to look at him.
She could physically feel his heavy eyes on her, a physical pressure on the side of her face that matched how he looked at a rival’s weak point on a tactical map.
Tyler broke the thick silence, his voice quiet and dangerously even as he stated she shouldn’t have done that.
Megan finally turned her head, the expensive leather seat squeaking slightly as she moved to face his anger.
She argued that she had merely used the information he paid her to analyze, pointing out that Dan was a bully who only understood leverage.
She insisted she had just reminded the mafia boss that he currently had absolutely none.
Tyler shot back, leaning forward and resting his massive forearms on his knees, his scent of cedar and ozone completely spilling into her personal space.
He argued that Dan was a proud dinosaur who wouldn’t easily forget being publicly humiliated in front of his dangerous peers.
He explicitly warned her that she had deliberately put a massive spotlight on herself.
The fear mutated rapidly back into anger as her voice rose, reminding him she was a highly educated accountant with a master’s degree.
She refused to sit there and let a man who couldn’t even balance a simple logistics ledger talk down to her like she was a shiny new toy.
Tyler stared at her, the intense anger in his dark eyes fracturing and being replaced by a slow, deeply reluctant fascination.
He rubbed a heavy hand over his mouth, the rough sound of calluses against stubble loud in the quiet, tense car.
He pointed out quietly that she was shaking.
Megan looked down at her hands resting in her lap, realizing he was entirely right.
Her fingers were trembling so violently that the manicured nails she had painted that morning were completely blurring together.
She clenched them into tight, desperate fists, hiding them entirely in the folds of the expensive emerald silk dress.
She defensively claimed it was a natural physiological response to a threat and insisted she was perfectly fine.
He countered simply that she was terrified.
She burst out that of course she was terrified, her fragile composure finally cracking entirely under the pressure.
She explained that her previous stress response involved crying silently in a bathroom stall over spilled coffee, and now she was actively navigating gang warfare over veal chops.
She admitted in a broken whisper that she was completely out of her depth.
The SUV slowed smoothly, descending the steep concrete ramp into the secure underground garage of the penthouse building.
The yellow street lights were instantly replaced by harsh, flickering fluorescent tubes overhead.
Tyler didn’t speak a single word until the car lurched to a halt and Brian killed the engine in the front seat.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, turning to face her fully in the incredibly dim light.
He firmly stated she wasn’t out of her depth at all.
He praised her for reading the room perfectly, identifying the biggest threat, and neutralizing him with exactly three sentences.
He admitted quietly that most of his experienced captains couldn’t do that.
He reached across the wide console, causing her to flinch and press her spine aggressively against the door.
He simply unbuckled her seatbelt, his knuckles brushing her hip in a fleeting, burning contact that she felt down to her bones.
He commanded her to come upstairs, take off the dress, and let him pour her a stiff drink.
The penthouse was exactly as cold and intensely empty as they had left it hours ago.
Megan kicked off the painfully high black stilettos the exact second the private elevator doors closed behind them.
She completely ignored the unhygienic reality of walking barefoot on the foyer marble, desperate to feel physically grounded.
Tyler shucked off his tailored suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a glass dining chair.
The sudden movement pulled his white shirt tight across his broad shoulders, revealing the heavy leather shoulder holster strapped dangerously across his chest.
The dark metal of the loaded gun caught the recessed lighting, a jarring, incredibly violent disruption to the sterile domesticity of the room.
He walked straight to the wet bar, the crystal decanters clinking softly as he poured two very generous measures of aged, amber liquid.
Megan sank heavily into one of the low, slate-gray sofas, pulling her knees tightly up to her chest to make herself as small as possible.
The emerald silk dress pooled beautifully around her as she watched him, studying the rigid, tense set of his broad shoulders.
He was a deeply violent man, and she knew the ledgers that detailed the blood paying for his incredible view.
Yet, standing in the center of the room, handing her a heavy glass of expensive bourbon, he looked profoundly, utterly exhausted.
He ordered her to drink, pressing the cold glass firmly into her shaking hand.
She took a large sip, the liquor burning a fiery, violently cleansing path down her throat and settling as a warm knot in her empty stomach.
She coughed hard, squeezing her eyes shut against the burn.
Tyler sat on the heavy glass coffee table directly in front of her, leaning aggressively into her personal space.
He rested his elbows heavily on his knees, holding his own glass loosely between his thick, calloused fingers.
He murmured in a gravelly voice that he hadn’t brought her into this world to make her a weapon.
He explained he had brought her in solely because he desperately needed clean books, because Brian said she was smart, and because she kept her mouth shut.
She reminded him softly that she did keep her mouth shut right until he painted a massive target on her back.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, agonizing regret crossing his harsh features.
He promised he was dealing with Craig and that Dan would be firmly handled.
But he explicitly warned her she could absolutely never do what she did tonight again.
She opened her eyes, meeting his dark, unreadable stare, and demanded to know why she couldn’t show them how smart she was.
His voice tightened as he explained that it completely emasculated them.
He stated that in his world, a boss’s girl wasn’t supposed to have a brain.
If they realized she understood the financial infrastructure of the entire city better than they did, they wouldn’t just want to leverage her.
They would violently want to own her, or they would simply put a bullet in her head to neutralize the massive threat she represented.
He reached out slowly, his warm, rough fingers wrapping completely around her bare ankle.
The unexpected touch sent a massive jolt of electricity straight up her leg, entirely overriding the lingering fear.
He didn’t move his hand, just letting his thumb press gently and reassuringly against the rapid pulse point just below her ankle bone.
He stated the word “property” tasting heavily like ash in his mouth, asserting he could protect his property.
But he confessed he couldn’t possibly protect a threat, begging her to be quiet and let him do all the violent fighting.
She stared down at the large hand on her ankle, then slowly back up to his exhausted face.
The cynical part of her mind knew he was establishing dominance, but the terrified part of her felt the heavy, undeniable weight of true safety in his grip.
She whispered an agreement, the lie burning her throat far worse than the expensive bourbon.
Monday morning smelled distinctly of sharp ozone and impending, unavoidable violence.
Megan sat cross-legged on the thick floor of the guest bedroom, surrounded entirely by massive stacks of Manila folders.
The harsh morning sunlight glinted sharply off her wire-rimmed reading glasses as the air conditioning hummed a low, monotonous drone.
She meticulously capped her yellow highlighter, having spent the last forty-eight hours aggressively analyzing Craig’s public-facing business holdings.
Tyler had explicitly told her to leave it alone, to hide quietly, but the memory of his heavy, protective hand on her ankle chafed against her skin like rough wool.
She completely refused to be a passive pawn waiting to be violently traded or killed.
The bedroom door opened without a knock, and Tyler stood ominously in the frame.
He wore dark denim and a tight black T-shirt that clung to the heavy muscle of his chest, his hair damp from a recent shower.
The dark circles under his eyes were deeply bruised and purple, betraying a complete lack of sleep.
He looked down at the massive sea of paperwork covering the expensive Persian rug, his voice completely flat and devoid of the volatile heat from Friday night.
That absolute flatness scared her significantly more than his previous anger.
She didn’t look up, methodically explaining that Brian was practical and knew she could process data much faster than the rest of the crew.
She confessed she had asked Brian for Craig’s union payrolls, and the loyal bodyguard had immediately provided them.
Tyler stepped fully into the room, his heavy boots making absolutely no sound on the thick rug.
He stopped right at the edge of her paper fortress, smelling faintly of mint soap and cold, stale coffee.
He stated conversationally, as if discussing the weather, that Craig had violently hit one of his warehouses on the West Side three hours ago.
He revealed Craig had burned it entirely to the foundation, leaving two night watchmen in the ICU with third-degree burns.
Megan’s breath hitched violently, the plastic cap of the highlighter digging painfully into her sweating palm.
The sterile, black-and-white numbers on the page suddenly felt completely soaked in real gasoline.
Tyler continued, his dark eyes fixed intensely on the crown of her head, explaining the fire was merely a down payment.
Craig wanted the Southport contracts handed over by midnight, or he would start systematically burning things that actually mattered to Tyler.
The terrifying implication hung heavily in the air, confirming she was no longer just a hostage, but the central piece on a burning board.
She slowly lifted her head, expecting to see him pacing and shouting in preparation for a bloody war.
Instead, Tyler was perfectly still, watching her with a terrifying, predatory calm as she asked if he was going to give Craig the ports.
He knelt down, ignoring the loud crinkle of paper beneath his knee, getting close enough for her to see the faint, silvery scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
He promised in a deadly whisper that he was going to rip Craig’s throat out, completely mobilizing his crews for a massive street war.
Panic finally broke through her clinical facade, her voice raspy as she warned him the feds would immediately step in.
Tyler interrupted roughly, dismissing the collateral damage as the unavoidable cost of doing business because Craig had threatened what was his.
She shouted that she wasn’t his, scrambling backward until her spine hit the heavy wooden bed frame.
The folders scattered violently across the floor in a messy avalanche as she begged him to stop acting like he was in a movie.
She reminded him people were actively burning, insisting he couldn’t just shoot his way out of this solely because his ego was bruised.
Tyler’s jaw locked completely as he leaned forward, aggressively boxing her in by planting his hands heavily on the carpet on either side of her thighs.
The intense heat rolling off his body was overwhelming as he breathed venomously, demanding if she thought this was about his ego.
He explained Craig was testing the fences, and if he didn’t respond with overwhelming violence, every parasite in the city would think he was soft.
They would think he was incredibly weak simply because he let a woman live in his house.
She fired back, her chest heaving, telling him not to be soft, but to be smart.
She reached out, grabbing a specific heavy blue folder from the chaos beside her leg and slamming it forcefully onto his chest.
She declared he didn’t need a street war to completely gut his rival; he just needed a bank.
Tyler blinked, looking down at the folder pressed against his sternum, then back up to her flushed, defiant face.
He asked what she was talking about, completely thrown by the sudden shift in tactics.
She demanded he read it, tapping the thick cardboard and explaining that Craig’s entire operation was propped up by high-interest loans from a shadow bank in Zurich.
He used legitimate union dues to pay the exorbitant monthly interest, but the Zurich accounts were ironclad.
Tyler slowly took the folder, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the meticulously highlighted columns of numbers.
She corrected him, her voice dropping into the steady, incredibly confident rhythm she normally used in corporate boardrooms.
She pointed out that he routed the clean union money through three structurally flawed shell companies in Delaware.
She leaned forward, pointing a shaking finger at a highlighted block of text, her shoulder accidentally brushing his chest.
The scent of her vanilla soap tangled violently with his ozone cologne as she explained the companies had violated new federal compliance laws.
If an anonymous tip went to the SEC with this exact paper trail, the accounts would be permanently frozen by three that afternoon.
Tyler went perfectly still, staring at the paper before slowly dragging his eyes up to intensely meet hers.
The realization bloomed fully in his dark eyes, a terrifying, beautiful mix of awe and lethal calculation.
He murmured that if the accounts froze, Craig would instantly default on the massive Zurich loan that night.
Megan finished his sentence, stating the shadow bank would aggressively liquidate his assets, and his own backers would break his legs by morning.
There would be absolutely no bullets, no street war, just pure, devastating math.
The silence stretched between them, thick and humming with sudden, intense electricity.
Tyler dropped the folder, staying completely boxed around her, his face mere inches from hers.
He reached up, his rough thumb aggressively tracing the line of her jaw in a possessive motion that grounded him in her reality.
He breathed that she was a terrifying creature, his voice a dark, raw vibration.
She swallowed hard, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs, trapped securely in the cage of his strong arms.
She whispered she was just an accountant.
A slow, dark smile curved his lips, completely devoid of humor but absolutely full of devastating promise as he replied she wasn’t anymore.
Fluorescent light from the burner laptop painted Megan’s tired face in an anemic, pale blue.
She sat cross-legged at the massive dining table, an oversized gray wool sweater completely swallowing her small frame.
The penthouse was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic, metallic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the long hallway.
Tyler stood silently by the floor-to-ceiling window, a heavy, crystal glass of water in his hand as he watched her reflection in the glass.
Brian was stationed rigidly by the elevator, a silent monolith of dark suit and heavily suppressed anxiety.
It was exactly two forty-five in the afternoon.
She murmured that the server nodes were routed securely through a VPN in Estonia, her voice incredibly scratchy from total disuse.
She confirmed she was attaching the devastating PDF of the Delaware shell registry inconsistencies.
She swallowed hard, her throat feeling lined with thick sandpaper as she prepared to pull a trigger with a different kind of weapon.
Tyler told her to send it, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated against the thick glass.
Her index finger trembled violently over the enter key, the plastic feeling slippery under her sweat-dampened skin.
She closed her eyes, exhaled a very shaky breath, and pressed the key firmly.
The mechanical clack echoed entirely too loudly in the cavernous room, followed by a sterile green checkmark confirming submission.
She shoved the laptop completely away from her as if it had suddenly caught fire, pulling her knees tightly to her chest.
Tyler finally turned, walking over to the table and setting his heavy water glass down with a loud thud.
He didn’t look at the screen; he looked directly at her, studying the pale shade of her cheeks and her shallow, panicked breaths.
He pulled out the chair next to her and sat down, incredibly close, announcing they just had to wait.
The next forty-five minutes were an absolute master class in pure psychological torture.
She paced the length of the expensive Persian rug, completely unable to sit still, while Tyler remained a solid, unmoving statue.
At exactly three thirty-two, Brian’s phone vibrated harshly, making Megan physically jump in terror.
Brian pulled the phone from his breast pocket, listening intently before confirming the Zurich accounts were completely locked.
He reported the SEC had triggered an automated freeze on the Delaware shells, vaporizing Craig’s massive credit lines instantly.
Craig had already bounced a wire transfer, and his lieutenants were rapidly abandoning ship to avoid the federal fallout.
Tyler slowly stood up, the heavy leather of his chair creaking loudly in the quiet room.
A slow, terrifyingly dark smile spread fully across his face, a baring of teeth utterly devoid of any warmth.
He turned his intense gaze to Megan, pinning her completely to the floor with pure, unadulterated awe.
He closed the massive distance between them in two long strides, looking down at her as if he had never truly seen her before.
He murmured that she had entirely gutted his enemy, ripping his massive empire down to the studs without a single shot fired.
She looked up at him, her vision blurring slightly as the crushing weight of her moral compromise crashed completely over her.
She whispered defensively that she just did the math.
Tyler reached out, his warm, calloused hand gently cupping the side of her neck, stroking her hammering pulse.
He corrected her in a pitch-black whisper, stating firmly that she had done the impossible.
Midnight brought a silence so incredibly profound it made her ears ring constantly.
The relentless rain had returned, a steady, driving sheet of water that battered the penthouse windows and blurred the city lights.
Megan sat on the very edge of the guest bed, staring entirely blankly at the intricate patterns of the rug.
Brian had delivered the news twenty minutes ago in a perfectly flat voice: Craig was completely dead.
The shadow bank hadn’t waited for the SEC; they sent a brutal collection team to Craig’s parking garage.
She pressed the heels of her hands violently against her eyes, shivering with a deep, skeletal cold that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.
The heavy, measured footsteps crossing the carpet could only belong to Tyler as the mattress dipped violently under his weight.
He smelled of fresh rain, expensive leather, and the sharp, burning bite of aged Scotch.
He didn’t speak immediately, just sitting there as a massive, solid wall of heat in the freezing vacuum of her deep panic.
He forced a cold crystal glass into her shaking hands, ordering her to drink the two fingers of dark amber liquid.
The Scotch burned a fiery, violent path down her throat, forcing a harsh cough but chasing away the icy numbness gripping her chest.
She whispered to the empty room that she was just an accountant who paid taxes and sorted receipts, not someone who orchestrated executions.
Tyler corrected her in a low, gravelly rasp, insisting she had protected what was theirs.
She whipped her head around, glaring at him as her fear transmuted instantly into a desperate, defensive rage.
She yelled that there was no “ours,” that she was just an employee accidentally dragged into a war zone with a dead man’s blood on her conscience.
Tyler snapped back, his jaw clenching tightly, reminding her that Craig was a rabid dog who burned buildings with innocent men inside.
He pointed out fiercely that she had saved dozens of lives by stopping the street war, demanding she not play the martyr.
She yelled back that she just wanted to be boring, to worry about student loans instead of shadow bank retaliation.
Hot, furious tears finally spilled over her lower lashes, tracking burning lines down her pale, exhausted cheeks.
She tried to turn away, hating crying in front of him, but he reached out, gripping her shoulders and hauling her around to face him.
He commanded her to look at him, his grip entirely firm and grounding.
She opened her eyes to see his face inches from hers, the harsh lines softened by a profound, agonizing vulnerability.
He breathed that she wasn’t boring, that she had walked into a room full of monsters and brought him entirely to his knees without even trying.
He swiped a rough thumb across her damp cheek, catching a tear and sending a massive jolt of pure electricity straight to her core.
He confessed the words tasting like ash that he had selfishly ruined her life because he couldn’t stand another man looking at her.
He leaned in closer, his forehead resting heavily against hers, whispering a dark, heavy vow that he was never letting her go.
He claimed she understood his violent world better than his own blood did, and she had completely conquered it.
Megan’s breath hitched violently, knowing she should absolutely push him away and disappear into the night.
But the intoxicating, terrifying truth was that the fear was rapidly fading, replaced entirely by an undeniable gravity pulling her toward the violence, and toward him.
She let out a fractured breath, gripping the lapels of his dark shirt and feeling the heavy thud of his heartbeat.
She breathed a desperate plea, telling him not to let go.
Tyler groaned a rough, feral sound from deep in his chest, his mouth crashing down on hers in a messy, desperate collision that tasted of rye whiskey.
She kissed him back with absolutely equal ferocity, her fingernails digging deeply into his shoulders as she anchored herself to the monster she had chosen to love.
Morning tasted like old scotch and copper as Megan finally peeled her tired eyes open.
A heavy, suffocating weight rested securely across her waist as she turned her head to see Tyler asleep beside her.
His dark hair stuck up at awkward angles, and one large, calloused hand was anchored firmly against her bare stomach beneath the tangled sheets.
It was a complete barricade, a total claim that she no longer felt any desire to escape.
She carefully slid out from under his heavy arm, padding barefoot out of the bedroom and down the long, completely silent hallway.
The penthouse didn’t feel like a cage anymore; it felt exactly like a secure bunker.
Brian was already in the kitchen, standing silently by the espresso machine and looking exactly the same as he had at two in the morning.
He didn’t offer a polite morning greeting; he simply slid a thick, leather-bound portfolio across the black marble island.
He explained in his deep rumble that it contained the financial architecture of Dan’s syndicate on Staten Island.
He stated that given the massive shift in their operations, he assumed she might want a significant head start on the vulnerability assessment.
He wasn’t handing her homework; he was handing her a fully loaded weapon to dismantle another boss without a single bullet.
Tyler stepped into the kitchen, wearing loose gray sweatpants and smelling of mint soap, his chest bare and fully exposing the dark tattoos.
He brushed her wrist in a fleeting, completely possessive drag of skin against skin before picking up a ceramic mug.
He asked if she had slept, turning his broad body entirely toward her and boxing her securely in against the counter.
She didn’t shrink back this time; she held her ground firmly, letting the physical proximity burn brightly between them.
Tyler explained that Craig’s territory was completely fractured, and his captains were moving in to violently absorb the southern docks.
He noted the other families were going to demand to know exactly how a syndicate was gutted in three hours without a single gunshot.
Megan asked quietly what he was going to tell them.
Tyler traced the faint bruise under her eye, promising to tell them the absolute truth: his brilliant accountant had simply found a rounding error.
He leaned in, his lips brushing hotly against her temple, telling her to let them ask questions and realize exactly whose ledger she balanced.
Megan closed her eyes, leaning heavily into the rough texture of his jaw, the lingering guilt dissolving entirely into the raw power of their partnership.
She looked past his shoulder at the heavy portfolio, realizing this terrifying, violent world was now undeniably hers too.
She murmured, her hands resting flat against the heavy muscle of his chest, instructing Brian to bring her the Staten Island zoning permits.
She declared that if they were putting a tight leash on Dan, she needed to know exactly how much his throat could take before it finally snapped.
Tyler froze completely, a low, dark rumble of genuine laughter vibrating deep in his massive chest.
He pulled back just enough to look down at her, a predatory, devastating smile breaking completely across his harsh features.
He realized with terrifying clarity that he didn’t own her; they owned the entire city together.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
