I never informed my stepfather that I had spent ten years as an elite covert operative for the Defense Intelligence Agency. As far as he knew, I was simply Eleanor’s meek daughter—the woman who dropped by for polite visits, measured her words carefully, and bit her tongue whenever he belittled my desk job.

The Oak Creek Country Club was a monument to old Southern money and pretension. It was where Richard spent his days drinking expensive bourbon on my mother’s dime, pretending he was a titan of industry.

At 12:55 PM, I walked into the mahogany-paneled dining room.

I wasn't wearing my usual oversized sweaters or sensible flats. I wore a tailored black suit, my hair pulled back into a severe knot. I moved with the silent, predatory grace of a woman who was entirely in her element.

Richard was sitting in a corner booth, nursing a scotch. He looked haggard. The bruising on his chest from where I struck him was undoubtedly making it painful to breathe.

When he saw me, he tried to muster his old arrogance, leaning back and crossing his arms.

I slid into the booth across from him. I didn't order a drink. I just stared at him with dead, empty eyes.

“Where is your mother?” he demanded, keeping his voice low to avoid the attention of the surrounding elite.

“She’s safe,” I said smoothly. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

“Listen to me, you little bitch,” he hissed, leaning over the table. “You think because you took a self-defense class you can intimidate me? I have the paperwork. I have her signature on the LLCs. You give me that drive right now, or I make one phone call, and the FBI arrests her for laundering cartel money.”

I didn't blink. I reached into my blazer, pulled out the silver flash drive, and set it on the center of the table.

Richard’s eyes lit up with greedy triumph. He reached for it.

I slammed the blade of a titanium tactical pen through the flash drive, pinning it entirely through the mahogany table with a sickening crack.

Richard recoiled, letting out a yelp of shock. Heads turned in the dining room, but I didn't care.

“That drive doesn't matter anymore, Richard,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Because at 6:00 AM this morning, I had a friend of mine access your private Cayman account. The one where you hid the $2.5 million you’ve been stealing from the Volkov Syndicate.”

All the blood drained from Richard’s face. He looked like a corpse.

“How… how do you know about that?” he stammered, his hands shaking violently.

“I transferred every single dime of it into a decentralized cryptocurrency wallet,” I continued coldly. “You have a zero balance. And then, I sent an anonymous, encrypted email to Yuri Volkov with the transaction logs showing exactly how you’ve been robbing him for three years.”

Richard couldn't breathe. His chest heaved. He grasped the edge of the table, sheer, unadulterated terror consuming him.