During christmas dinner, my 5-year-old niece wouldn't sit in her chair. "The chair hurts me..." she said, standing by the wall. My brother coldly interrupted, "She's being dramatic," and his wife forced her to sit. My niece started crying. When I went to the kitchen, she followed. She pulled up her dress slightly and whispered, "Uncle mike, every night dad..."

The massive front door swung open with a rush of icy wind. Cortez entered, shaking snow from his heavy cashmere coat. His eyes were not calm; they were hard, vibrating with a lethal, calculating intensity.

Behind him stood two of his private security operatives—burly men with earpieces and the distinct bulges of concealed sidearms beneath their jackets.

I stood casually at the wet bar in the corner of the living room, pouring a glass of sparkling water.

"Traffic bad?" I asked, keeping my voice level, steady as a flatline.

Cortez stopped. He signaled the two guards with a subtle flick of his fingers. They immediately took positions at the front entry, sealing the exit.

"My network detected an unauthorized data spike originating from inside this house ten minutes ago," Cortez said, his voice dangerously soft as he walked toward me. "Ten gigabytes pushed to an offsite server."

Elia came down the sweeping staircase, drawn by the tension. "Cortez? What’s going on?"

"Quiet, Elia," Cortez snapped, never breaking eye contact with me. He stopped three feet away. I could smell the cold air and leather clinging to him. "Mike. You’ve been asking a lot of questions. Looking at things that don't belong to you."

"I'm an investigator, Cortez. It's an occupational hazard."

"You're a guest in my home. And more importantly, you're an amateur playing in a professional league." Cortez reached slowly into his pocket.

My muscles tensed, ready to dodge and counter-strike.

Instead, he pulled out his smartphone and placed it on the counter between us. On the screen was a live security feed of the diner parking lot from earlier today. A still image showed me sitting in the corner booth, on the phone.

"Bradley Hayes runs the traffic cameras in this county," Cortez said with a mocking sneer. "Did you really think you could make calls to high-profile defense attorneys within my operational radius and not trigger a surveillance flag?"

"You're paranoid, Cortez."

"I am prepared," Cortez corrected, leaning in. His voice dropped to a sinister whisper. "I know why you're here. You think you're going to save Ella. You think you're going to drag my name through the mud and play the heroic white knight."

He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound.

"Let me explain how this works, little brother. By midnight, your rental car will be found at the bottom of the ravine off Route 7. Local authorities will conclude you were driving too fast in the blizzard, lost control, and went through the guardrail. Tragic holiday accident."

"Cortez, what are you saying?!" Elia gasped, her face suddenly losing its color. She was cruel, but she was a socialite, not a killer. The reality of Cortez’s psychopathy was finally cracking her facade.

"Go upstairs, Elia," Cortez commanded without looking at her. "Take Ella to the safe room. Now."

"Cortez—"

"NOW!" he roared, a flash of the feral monster beneath the tailored suit breaking through.

Elia stumbled backward, terrified, and fled up the stairs.

I looked at Cortez. The pretense was gone. No more corporate facades. No more polite family dinners.

"You're a sick bastard, Cortez," I said, my voice dead and cold. "And you made a fatal mistake."

Cortez smiled coldly, signaling the two armed operatives behind him. "And what mistake was that?"