Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
*CALLING FOR MORE PARTICIPATION*
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
Erica Sinclair - A Matter of Honor (M/F)
This is developing very nicely. Erica seems to have totally succeeded in convincing Cross that he is in charge here.
Dear @LunaDog, maybe she did, but playing Cross' game comes at a cost.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The moment Erica steps inside her apartment, the tension in her shoulders eases, if only a little. The scent of home – lavender from the diffuser, faint traces of leather and wood - wraps around her like a familiar embrace. But before she can even slip out of her heels, a blur of fur comes racing toward her.
Spot, the little troublemaker, launches himself at her leg with a chirp, his tiny claws hooking into her stockings before he tumbles back onto the hardwood floor. A heartbeat later, Tiger appears, more dignified but just as pleased, rubbing his striped body against her calf.
A genuine smile tugs at Erica’s lips. “Hey, babies. Mommy’s home early.”
She crouches down, scooping Spot into her arms as Tiger winds himself around her wrist, purring like a motorboat. Spot immediately tries to climb onto her shoulder, his tiny paws pressing against her collarbone.
“You’ve been causing trouble, haven’t you?” she murmurs, scratching under his chin. He nuzzles her in response, content.
For a few blissful moments, she lets herself be here, in this quiet sanctuary, where Cross doesn’t exist, where there’s no deception, no danger - just the steady purring of her kittens and the soft hum of the city beyond her windows.
But the weight of the cash in her handbag is a reminder.
With a sigh, Erica gently sets Spot down and makes her way to the living room. She places her bag on the sleek glass coffee table and unzips it, pulling out the neatly stacked bundles of hundred-dollar bills.
Fifty thousand dollars.
She spreads them out, fanning the crisp notes across the table, the sight almost surreal against the soft glow of her apartment’s warm lighting. Blood money. Bribe money. Her money - at least as far as Cross was concerned.
Tiger hops onto the table, sniffing at the stacks before promptly flopping onto his side, tail flicking lazily. Erica huffs a quiet laugh. “Guess you don’t care where it came from, huh?”
Pulling out her phone, she angles the camera, capturing the absurdity of it - the small, striped cat lounging next to more cash than most people see in a year.
She types a message:
"My share of what Cross creams off a shipment of cash from Mexico."
She sends it to Sophie van Rey. No context. No explanation. Just the image and the words.
As the message delivers, Erica exhales slowly, staring at the screen. The game has truly begun.
And now, there’s no turning back.
~~~
Erica lingers by the coffee table, the weight of the fifty thousand dollars still pressing against the edges of her mind. But as she stares at the stacks of crisp bills, something shifts inside her.
A quiet voice, long ignored, nudges at her conscience.
She walks into her bedroom, kneels down by the bed and reaches for the shoebox.
It’s been there all along, tucked away, waiting. A silent reminder of a life that once was, of the people who shaped her before the world just recently demanded she put on the mask of someone else. She lifts it carefully, as if disturbing it too much might break the fragile connection to her past.
Sitting on the couch, she places the box in front of her and exhales slowly, steadying herself before lifting the lid.
The familiar scent of aged paper and time-worn memories rises up. The blue plastic case holding her parents’ wedding bands, her father’s green army beret, the medals, the birth and death certificates - each item is a thread tying her to them. But it’s the envelope of photographs that always calls to her the loudest.
Her fingers hesitate before pulling out the picture she knows by heart.
Her mother, radiant and full of life, leaning into her father’s protective embrace on a checkered picnic blanket. Her father, strong and steady, his grip firm around his young wife as if he could hold onto time itself. And there - standing between them, impossibly small - baby Erica, her little fingers grasping the air as if reaching for something unseen.
A lump forms in her throat.
She runs her thumb lightly over the surface of the photo, tracing the contours of her mother’s face. It’s like looking into a mirror reflected back through decades. The same high cheekbones, the same determined set of the mouth. But there’s warmth in her mother’s eyes, an openness Erica sometimes wonders if she’s lost it along the way.
What would she think of me now?
Would she understand the choices I’ve made?
Would she still see her little daughter in the woman I’ve become?
The questions knot together in Erica’s chest, but this time, she doesn’t push them away. She lets them sit there, lets herself feel the ache that comes with them.
Slowly, deliberately, she rises from the couch and walks to the cabinet by the windows. She takes down a sleek, silver frame - one she had always meant to fill, but that has stood empty for too long - and slides the photograph inside.
Then, with a steady hand, she places it on the shelf beside the collection of books and small keepsakes that make up the quiet corners of her home.
It belongs here.
It always has.
She’s always carried her father’s lessons with her - his strength, his sense of justice, the way he shaped her into the woman she is. But her mother? Her mother has always been more of a ghost, a presence she feels but never truly let in.
Now, by framing that photo and giving it a place in her home, she’s making room for both of them. She’s no longer keeping her mother tucked away in a shoebox, only to be visited in stolen moments of grief. She’s acknowledging that she wants her mother to be a part of her life, not just in memory, but in the way she sees herself, the way she moves forward.
And maybe, just maybe, that means opening herself up in ways she hasn’t before. To emotions she’s long buried. To the idea that she’s more than just the sum of her father’s teachings - she’s also her mother’s daughter.
This realization doesn’t make her weaker. If anything, it makes her stronger and more complete. Because now, she carries both of them with her.
The soft rustling of fur against her leg draws her back to the present. Tiger and Spot twine themselves around her ankles, their purring a gentle grounding force. She bends down, running her hands through their coats before glancing at the picture again.
Her parents may be gone, but they are not lost. They are with her all the time.
~~~
A buzz from her phone breaks the silence.
Erica turns, reaching for it where she left it on the coffee table. The screen glows in the dim light - Sophie van Rey.
Of course, the ADA has seen her message with the photo of the money.
She knew this call was coming. Still, something inside her tightens.
She exhales slowly, straightens her spine, and presses accept.
"Hello, Sophie."
There’s no preamble. No pleasantries. Sophie’s voice is cool, controlled, but Erica catches the sharp edge beneath it.
"Elaborate. Please."
It’s not a request.
Erica leans back, focusing the framed photo she just placed on the shelf, her fingers tightening around the phone. She chooses her words carefully.
"Cross showed me a briefcase full of neat bundles of hundreds." she says. "The cartel sends money from their side hustles either by courier or hidden in container shipments of recyclable material. He’s got a whole system in place. Laundering dirty cash right under everyone’s noses."
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the kind that makes Erica picture Sophie gripping her phone a little tighter, pressing her lips into a thin line.
"How much?" Sophie asks, her voice quieter now. Sharper.
Erica breathes in. "He offered me fifty grand a month. Twenty-five percent of what he skims off the top from these shipments."
Another silence.
Erica continues, her mind still running the numbers even as she speaks. "If he’s keeping two hundred thousand for himself, I can’t even estimate how much they’re moving in total. Two million? Maybe more."
A sharp inhale. "Good grief."
Sophie isn’t easily rattled. Erica knows that. And yet, hearing the ADA break her usual composure - just for a second - tells her exactly how bad this is.
Erica shifts, glancing at the stacks of crisp bills still spread out on the coffee table. The weight of them feels heavier now. Like something pressing against her ribs.
"He made the offer." she says, voice steady. "I took the money. Sold my act. Now all I can do is wait until he tells me what he wants me to do."
Another pause. This one lingers, stretching between them, thick with unspoken tension.
Finally, Sophie exhales. "Be careful, Erica."
Erica’s gaze drifts back to the framed photograph.
"I always am."
But she knows that this game is only getting more dangerous.
~~~
Spot, the little troublemaker, launches himself at her leg with a chirp, his tiny claws hooking into her stockings before he tumbles back onto the hardwood floor. A heartbeat later, Tiger appears, more dignified but just as pleased, rubbing his striped body against her calf.
A genuine smile tugs at Erica’s lips. “Hey, babies. Mommy’s home early.”
She crouches down, scooping Spot into her arms as Tiger winds himself around her wrist, purring like a motorboat. Spot immediately tries to climb onto her shoulder, his tiny paws pressing against her collarbone.
“You’ve been causing trouble, haven’t you?” she murmurs, scratching under his chin. He nuzzles her in response, content.
For a few blissful moments, she lets herself be here, in this quiet sanctuary, where Cross doesn’t exist, where there’s no deception, no danger - just the steady purring of her kittens and the soft hum of the city beyond her windows.
But the weight of the cash in her handbag is a reminder.
With a sigh, Erica gently sets Spot down and makes her way to the living room. She places her bag on the sleek glass coffee table and unzips it, pulling out the neatly stacked bundles of hundred-dollar bills.
Fifty thousand dollars.
She spreads them out, fanning the crisp notes across the table, the sight almost surreal against the soft glow of her apartment’s warm lighting. Blood money. Bribe money. Her money - at least as far as Cross was concerned.
Tiger hops onto the table, sniffing at the stacks before promptly flopping onto his side, tail flicking lazily. Erica huffs a quiet laugh. “Guess you don’t care where it came from, huh?”
Pulling out her phone, she angles the camera, capturing the absurdity of it - the small, striped cat lounging next to more cash than most people see in a year.
She types a message:
"My share of what Cross creams off a shipment of cash from Mexico."
She sends it to Sophie van Rey. No context. No explanation. Just the image and the words.
As the message delivers, Erica exhales slowly, staring at the screen. The game has truly begun.
And now, there’s no turning back.
~~~
Erica lingers by the coffee table, the weight of the fifty thousand dollars still pressing against the edges of her mind. But as she stares at the stacks of crisp bills, something shifts inside her.
A quiet voice, long ignored, nudges at her conscience.
She walks into her bedroom, kneels down by the bed and reaches for the shoebox.
It’s been there all along, tucked away, waiting. A silent reminder of a life that once was, of the people who shaped her before the world just recently demanded she put on the mask of someone else. She lifts it carefully, as if disturbing it too much might break the fragile connection to her past.
Sitting on the couch, she places the box in front of her and exhales slowly, steadying herself before lifting the lid.
The familiar scent of aged paper and time-worn memories rises up. The blue plastic case holding her parents’ wedding bands, her father’s green army beret, the medals, the birth and death certificates - each item is a thread tying her to them. But it’s the envelope of photographs that always calls to her the loudest.
Her fingers hesitate before pulling out the picture she knows by heart.
Her mother, radiant and full of life, leaning into her father’s protective embrace on a checkered picnic blanket. Her father, strong and steady, his grip firm around his young wife as if he could hold onto time itself. And there - standing between them, impossibly small - baby Erica, her little fingers grasping the air as if reaching for something unseen.
A lump forms in her throat.
She runs her thumb lightly over the surface of the photo, tracing the contours of her mother’s face. It’s like looking into a mirror reflected back through decades. The same high cheekbones, the same determined set of the mouth. But there’s warmth in her mother’s eyes, an openness Erica sometimes wonders if she’s lost it along the way.
What would she think of me now?
Would she understand the choices I’ve made?
Would she still see her little daughter in the woman I’ve become?
The questions knot together in Erica’s chest, but this time, she doesn’t push them away. She lets them sit there, lets herself feel the ache that comes with them.
Slowly, deliberately, she rises from the couch and walks to the cabinet by the windows. She takes down a sleek, silver frame - one she had always meant to fill, but that has stood empty for too long - and slides the photograph inside.
Then, with a steady hand, she places it on the shelf beside the collection of books and small keepsakes that make up the quiet corners of her home.
It belongs here.
It always has.
She’s always carried her father’s lessons with her - his strength, his sense of justice, the way he shaped her into the woman she is. But her mother? Her mother has always been more of a ghost, a presence she feels but never truly let in.
Now, by framing that photo and giving it a place in her home, she’s making room for both of them. She’s no longer keeping her mother tucked away in a shoebox, only to be visited in stolen moments of grief. She’s acknowledging that she wants her mother to be a part of her life, not just in memory, but in the way she sees herself, the way she moves forward.
And maybe, just maybe, that means opening herself up in ways she hasn’t before. To emotions she’s long buried. To the idea that she’s more than just the sum of her father’s teachings - she’s also her mother’s daughter.
This realization doesn’t make her weaker. If anything, it makes her stronger and more complete. Because now, she carries both of them with her.
The soft rustling of fur against her leg draws her back to the present. Tiger and Spot twine themselves around her ankles, their purring a gentle grounding force. She bends down, running her hands through their coats before glancing at the picture again.
Her parents may be gone, but they are not lost. They are with her all the time.
~~~
A buzz from her phone breaks the silence.
Erica turns, reaching for it where she left it on the coffee table. The screen glows in the dim light - Sophie van Rey.
Of course, the ADA has seen her message with the photo of the money.
She knew this call was coming. Still, something inside her tightens.
She exhales slowly, straightens her spine, and presses accept.
"Hello, Sophie."
There’s no preamble. No pleasantries. Sophie’s voice is cool, controlled, but Erica catches the sharp edge beneath it.
"Elaborate. Please."
It’s not a request.
Erica leans back, focusing the framed photo she just placed on the shelf, her fingers tightening around the phone. She chooses her words carefully.
"Cross showed me a briefcase full of neat bundles of hundreds." she says. "The cartel sends money from their side hustles either by courier or hidden in container shipments of recyclable material. He’s got a whole system in place. Laundering dirty cash right under everyone’s noses."
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the kind that makes Erica picture Sophie gripping her phone a little tighter, pressing her lips into a thin line.
"How much?" Sophie asks, her voice quieter now. Sharper.
Erica breathes in. "He offered me fifty grand a month. Twenty-five percent of what he skims off the top from these shipments."
Another silence.
Erica continues, her mind still running the numbers even as she speaks. "If he’s keeping two hundred thousand for himself, I can’t even estimate how much they’re moving in total. Two million? Maybe more."
A sharp inhale. "Good grief."
Sophie isn’t easily rattled. Erica knows that. And yet, hearing the ADA break her usual composure - just for a second - tells her exactly how bad this is.
Erica shifts, glancing at the stacks of crisp bills still spread out on the coffee table. The weight of them feels heavier now. Like something pressing against her ribs.
"He made the offer." she says, voice steady. "I took the money. Sold my act. Now all I can do is wait until he tells me what he wants me to do."
Another pause. This one lingers, stretching between them, thick with unspoken tension.
Finally, Sophie exhales. "Be careful, Erica."
Erica’s gaze drifts back to the framed photograph.
"I always am."
But she knows that this game is only getting more dangerous.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
True, nobody said it was going to be easy. But i have this feeling she's more than capable.
Dear @LunaDog, I'm glad you have so much confidence in our heroine. Let's see what happens next...
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Erica is hunched over a thick contract at her desk, her pen tapping absently against the paper. The low murmur of the office fades into the background as she scans another clause.
Then her phone buzzes.
She reaches for it without thinking, but the moment her eyes land on the screen, her focus sharpens.
A message from Darren Cross: "400 Western Avenue, Staten Island, Port Liberty. 12 noon."
Her pulse kicks up a notch. She glances at her Rolex. Ninety minutes.
Her fingers move instinctively, pulling up the address in her route planner. Thirty-nine minutes with traffic. Enough time to get there. Enough time to call Sophie.
She presses the call button. The line connects almost instantly.
“Erica.” Sophie’s voice is taut. No pleasantries. She knows this isn’t a social call.
“I got a message from Cross.” Erica says, keeping her tone neutral. “He wants me to meet him near Port Liberty. Noon. If I had to guess? A shipment just came in.”
A pause. The sound of Sophie tapping her fingers against something - desk, phone, maybe even her teeth - filters through the speaker.
“I can’t send anyone to watch your back.” she says finally. “Maybe the FBI…”
“Don’t.” Erica cuts in. A sharp exhale, a faint smirk she doesn’t quite feel. “I’m a big girl.”
She ends the call and pockets her phone. The moment stretches, the weight of it settling on her shoulders. This is it. The next step.
She pushes back from her desk, gathers her things, and reaches for her coat.
~~~
The cashmere slides over her shoulders as she steps out of her office. The sound of quiet typing, ringing phones, and hushed conversations drifts through the air - mundane, steady, safe.
Claire Messner looks up from her computer. Sharp, observant. She knows that something isn’t right.
“I have an appointment.” Erica says. “It came up unexpectedly. I might not be back before tomorrow.”
Claire’s eyes flicker with something - concern, maybe. “Of course. But please, Erica, be careful.”
She still stumbles a little over the name. Erica had only recently told her she could use it when they were alone. The awkwardness is almost endearing.
Erica gives her a small, knowing smile. “Always. I’ll see you tomorrow, Claire.”
And then she’s gone.
~~~
The drive is a blur of brake lights and honking horns. New York traffic at its finest.
She cuts through the late morning congestion, arriving at Cross Recycling with ten minutes to spare.
The yard is a controlled blizzard of movement. A crane swings massive shipping containers through the air, stacking them like oversized building bricks. Forklifts weave between semi-trucks. The air is thick with the scent of oil, rust, and something vaguely metallic.
A man in a neon yellow vest rolls up on a Segway, eyeing her as she steps out of her car.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Cross.” she says, locking the black Volvo with a click.
The man’s gaze flicks down to her low heels, then back up. “No hard hat, no vest, no steel-toe boots.” he states. “You can’t be on the property like that.”
Erica bites back her irritation. “I wasn’t aware.” she says smoothly. “Maybe I should call Mr. Cross…”
“What’s the holdup?”
The voice cuts through the yard like a blade.
Darren Cross strides toward them, all confidence and command. No hard hat, no vest, no construction-type boots, of course.
The workers part for him without hesitation like the Red Sea did for Mose. His smile is broad, welcoming - like they’re old friends.
“Erica!” he says. “How good to see you.”
Cross dismisses the employee with a flick of his hand, not even sparing him a glance. The man mutters an apology, turns his Segway around, and rolls off - grateful, no doubt, that he still has a job.
With an easy smile, Cross turns back to Erica. “Welcome to where the magic happens.”
His voice is smooth, almost amused, but there’s an underlying sharpness to it. He gestures toward the yard as a convoy of semi-trucks rumbles through the port-side entrance, each hauling a massive 40-foot shipping container. The ground vibrates faintly under Erica’s feet as the trucks roll past.
“These six just came in.” Cross explains. “Two of them contain scrap metal. Those are the ones you’ll want to inspect. The other four…” He smirks. “Trust me, you don’t want to be anywhere near them when they open.”
Erica watches the trucks maneuver into position, her gaze flicking over the steel containers. She forces a neutral expression. “I see.”
“Come with me.”
Cross leads her toward a metal gangway that overlooks the docking area. As they climb, he offers his arm, and she takes it out of habit rather than need. Below, the facility hums with movement - machines groaning, forklifts whirring, a foreman shouting instructions over the din.
From this vantage point, she has a clear view of the containers being unloaded. A massive crane grips one of them, hoisting it off the flatbed with mechanical precision. It swings slowly over an open sorting area before lowering into position above a deep steel bay.
Cross leans in slightly. “Watch for the two marked with a white Z. Once they’re emptied, you’ll want to take a look inside.”
“After they’re emptied?” Erica asks.
Cross grins, proud of his operation. “Just watch.”
Below, the first container doors are unlatched. With a sharp metallic groan, the entire container tilts forward, its contents crashing out in a deafening avalanche of waste. Scraps of twisted metal, broken parts, and tangled wiring slide down into the waiting bins. The air thickens with the acrid scent of rust and oil, mixed with something far less pleasant.
Erica instinctively turns her head slightly, but Cross laughs beside her. “Pungent, isn’t it? And that’s just the scrap metal. You should smell it when we get containers full of bio waste. We send that on to a fertilizer company.”
She doesn’t react, keeping her attention on the containers instead.
One by one, the steel boxes are emptied. The marked containers, the ones with the white Z, spill their cargo just like the others, only into different bays. Then, once they are cleared, cranes move in again, lifting the emptied containers and carrying them toward the facility’s washing station.
“Now we inspect the empties.” Cross says, leading the way back down the gangway.
Their footsteps echo against the concrete as they cross the yard. The stink of the waste lingers, mixing with diesel fumes and the metallic tang of rust. Workers move efficiently around them, too busy with their tasks to pay them much attention.
At last, they reach the row of now-empty steel containers. The heavy doors stand wide open, revealing cavernous interiors streaked with grime. Cross gestures toward the two marked with a white Z.
He crouches slightly, running his hand along the floor of one of the containers until he finds a barely visible seam. With a flick of his wrist, he lifts a concealed trapdoor.
Inside the hidden compartment, two black trash bags sit tightly wrapped around a pair of pilot-style briefcases.
Erica says nothing, keeping her face unreadable as she takes in the sight.
Cross pulls back his sleeve, glancing at his watch. “I’ll see you at Crosswinds in ninety minutes.”
She meets his gaze, nodding once. “Of course.”
Her voice is steady, controlled. But inside, tension coils in her chest. She has a perfect idea what’s in those briefcases. And she knows this is just the beginning.
~~~
Then her phone buzzes.
She reaches for it without thinking, but the moment her eyes land on the screen, her focus sharpens.
A message from Darren Cross: "400 Western Avenue, Staten Island, Port Liberty. 12 noon."
Her pulse kicks up a notch. She glances at her Rolex. Ninety minutes.
Her fingers move instinctively, pulling up the address in her route planner. Thirty-nine minutes with traffic. Enough time to get there. Enough time to call Sophie.
She presses the call button. The line connects almost instantly.
“Erica.” Sophie’s voice is taut. No pleasantries. She knows this isn’t a social call.
“I got a message from Cross.” Erica says, keeping her tone neutral. “He wants me to meet him near Port Liberty. Noon. If I had to guess? A shipment just came in.”
A pause. The sound of Sophie tapping her fingers against something - desk, phone, maybe even her teeth - filters through the speaker.
“I can’t send anyone to watch your back.” she says finally. “Maybe the FBI…”
“Don’t.” Erica cuts in. A sharp exhale, a faint smirk she doesn’t quite feel. “I’m a big girl.”
She ends the call and pockets her phone. The moment stretches, the weight of it settling on her shoulders. This is it. The next step.
She pushes back from her desk, gathers her things, and reaches for her coat.
~~~
The cashmere slides over her shoulders as she steps out of her office. The sound of quiet typing, ringing phones, and hushed conversations drifts through the air - mundane, steady, safe.
Claire Messner looks up from her computer. Sharp, observant. She knows that something isn’t right.
“I have an appointment.” Erica says. “It came up unexpectedly. I might not be back before tomorrow.”
Claire’s eyes flicker with something - concern, maybe. “Of course. But please, Erica, be careful.”
She still stumbles a little over the name. Erica had only recently told her she could use it when they were alone. The awkwardness is almost endearing.
Erica gives her a small, knowing smile. “Always. I’ll see you tomorrow, Claire.”
And then she’s gone.
~~~
The drive is a blur of brake lights and honking horns. New York traffic at its finest.
She cuts through the late morning congestion, arriving at Cross Recycling with ten minutes to spare.
The yard is a controlled blizzard of movement. A crane swings massive shipping containers through the air, stacking them like oversized building bricks. Forklifts weave between semi-trucks. The air is thick with the scent of oil, rust, and something vaguely metallic.
A man in a neon yellow vest rolls up on a Segway, eyeing her as she steps out of her car.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Cross.” she says, locking the black Volvo with a click.
The man’s gaze flicks down to her low heels, then back up. “No hard hat, no vest, no steel-toe boots.” he states. “You can’t be on the property like that.”
Erica bites back her irritation. “I wasn’t aware.” she says smoothly. “Maybe I should call Mr. Cross…”
“What’s the holdup?”
The voice cuts through the yard like a blade.
Darren Cross strides toward them, all confidence and command. No hard hat, no vest, no construction-type boots, of course.
The workers part for him without hesitation like the Red Sea did for Mose. His smile is broad, welcoming - like they’re old friends.
“Erica!” he says. “How good to see you.”
Cross dismisses the employee with a flick of his hand, not even sparing him a glance. The man mutters an apology, turns his Segway around, and rolls off - grateful, no doubt, that he still has a job.
With an easy smile, Cross turns back to Erica. “Welcome to where the magic happens.”
His voice is smooth, almost amused, but there’s an underlying sharpness to it. He gestures toward the yard as a convoy of semi-trucks rumbles through the port-side entrance, each hauling a massive 40-foot shipping container. The ground vibrates faintly under Erica’s feet as the trucks roll past.
“These six just came in.” Cross explains. “Two of them contain scrap metal. Those are the ones you’ll want to inspect. The other four…” He smirks. “Trust me, you don’t want to be anywhere near them when they open.”
Erica watches the trucks maneuver into position, her gaze flicking over the steel containers. She forces a neutral expression. “I see.”
“Come with me.”
Cross leads her toward a metal gangway that overlooks the docking area. As they climb, he offers his arm, and she takes it out of habit rather than need. Below, the facility hums with movement - machines groaning, forklifts whirring, a foreman shouting instructions over the din.
From this vantage point, she has a clear view of the containers being unloaded. A massive crane grips one of them, hoisting it off the flatbed with mechanical precision. It swings slowly over an open sorting area before lowering into position above a deep steel bay.
Cross leans in slightly. “Watch for the two marked with a white Z. Once they’re emptied, you’ll want to take a look inside.”
“After they’re emptied?” Erica asks.
Cross grins, proud of his operation. “Just watch.”
Below, the first container doors are unlatched. With a sharp metallic groan, the entire container tilts forward, its contents crashing out in a deafening avalanche of waste. Scraps of twisted metal, broken parts, and tangled wiring slide down into the waiting bins. The air thickens with the acrid scent of rust and oil, mixed with something far less pleasant.
Erica instinctively turns her head slightly, but Cross laughs beside her. “Pungent, isn’t it? And that’s just the scrap metal. You should smell it when we get containers full of bio waste. We send that on to a fertilizer company.”
She doesn’t react, keeping her attention on the containers instead.
One by one, the steel boxes are emptied. The marked containers, the ones with the white Z, spill their cargo just like the others, only into different bays. Then, once they are cleared, cranes move in again, lifting the emptied containers and carrying them toward the facility’s washing station.
“Now we inspect the empties.” Cross says, leading the way back down the gangway.
Their footsteps echo against the concrete as they cross the yard. The stink of the waste lingers, mixing with diesel fumes and the metallic tang of rust. Workers move efficiently around them, too busy with their tasks to pay them much attention.
At last, they reach the row of now-empty steel containers. The heavy doors stand wide open, revealing cavernous interiors streaked with grime. Cross gestures toward the two marked with a white Z.
He crouches slightly, running his hand along the floor of one of the containers until he finds a barely visible seam. With a flick of his wrist, he lifts a concealed trapdoor.
Inside the hidden compartment, two black trash bags sit tightly wrapped around a pair of pilot-style briefcases.
Erica says nothing, keeping her face unreadable as she takes in the sight.
Cross pulls back his sleeve, glancing at his watch. “I’ll see you at Crosswinds in ninety minutes.”
She meets his gaze, nodding once. “Of course.”
Her voice is steady, controlled. But inside, tension coils in her chest. She has a perfect idea what’s in those briefcases. And she knows this is just the beginning.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Now, we're REALLY getting down to it!
Dear @LunaDog, O yes! And let's see what Cross has on his mind, shall we?
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The drive to Crosswinds is uneventful, the city giving way to quieter roads lined with wealth. Erica barely notices. Her mind is already at the destination and with the two briefcases which – no doubt – contain more cash. Lots of it.
She pulls up in front of the mansion - sleek, traditional, deliberately understated in a way that only the truly rich can afford. The kind of place meant to impress without trying too hard.
The door opens before she even rings the bell.
Baker, the ever-efficient majordomo, stands at attention. Impeccable as always, his suit is crisp, his expression unreadable.
“Miss Sinclair.” he greets her with a polite nod. “Mr. Cross is expecting you.”
Of course, he is.
She steps inside, her heels, still stained by whatever dirt had accumulated at the recycling yard, clicking softly against the polished marble as Baker leads her down the hall.
The house is silent except for the faint hum of distant jazz - just enough to fill the space, not enough to intrude.
He stops at the sitting room and gestures her inside.
Cross is already there, relaxed, lounging in an armchair like he’s got all the time in the world. But it’s the table in front of him that draws Erica’s attention. Two briefcases. Black plastic still wrapped around them.
She lifts an eyebrow. “What are you, a part-time racing driver?”
Cross chuckles, unfazed as ever. “I like to stay ahead of the game.”
Baker steps forward with a silver tray, setting down two espressos - flawlessly presented, complete with a single sugar cube and tiny silver spoons. Without a word, he turns and disappears, leaving them alone behind closed doors.
Cross doesn’t rush. He peels the plastic away with deliberate care, then flicks open the latches. The scent of cash - real money - rises immediately.
Neat stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Cross watches her reaction, amused. “You had your share yesterday, Erica.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just meets his gaze, her expression cool. “Just making sure the supply doesn’t run dry.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “Smart girl. That’s why I hired you.”
Cross nudges one of the briefcases toward Erica. “Your cut. Help yourself.”
Erica, her expression unreadable as she glances at the neatly bundled stacks of cash, doesn’t hesitate.
With precise movements, she lifts out her share - fifty thousand in clean, crisp bundles of hundreds - placing it smoothly into her handbag.
Cross does the same, counting his portion into a leather shoulder bag before pushing the remaining money aside. He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly on the polished wood of the table.
"Now, for the fun part." he says.
Erica sips her espresso, waiting.
Cross gestures toward the leftover cash, the bulk of it. “This goes back into circulation through the businesses. Step by step. No sudden moves.”
From the inside pocket of his suit jacket, Cross pulls some papers.
He unfolds them carefully and lays them out on the table before Erica who reviews them with great attention: invoices for the recyclable materials – underdelivered and their prices massively inflated – to be paid into a bank account in the Cayman Islands.
“This is what Cross Recycling pays right away.” he explains. “So my Mexican friends don’t have to wait long for some of their money.”
Cross leans back in his chair, rolling his espresso cup between his fingers, the aroma of dark roast curling through the air. Across from him, Erica sits poised, legs crossed, her expression unreadable. The briefcases sit between them, still full of neatly stacked hundreds.
“So much for the easy part.” Cross says, gesturing lazily at the money. “Anyone can take a cut. The real skill is making the rest disappear.”
Erica lifts an eyebrow, waiting.
He smirks. “And that’s where the system comes in.”
Cross taps a finger against the table. “First, the clubs and restaurants. High-end joints - exclusive clientele, VIP lounges, places where no one questions a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne or a five-figure bar tab.” He shrugs. “We boost nightly earnings. Fake tabs, padded service fees, drinks that were never poured. Money walks in dirty, gets counted as revenue, and walks out clean.”
Erica nods slowly. “Skimming on one end, inflating on the other.”
“Exactly.” Cross’s grin widens. “Then there’s construction and waste management. That’s where things get creative.”
He leans forward slightly, fingers interlaced. “Cross Recycling handles contracts, transport, disposal. Trucks roll in, invoices go in and out. Some of them are real - others?” He gives a lazy flick of his wrist. “Let’s just say they document work that never happened. Scrap metal that was never processed. Repairs that were never made. Waste that was ‘hauled away’ but never actually existed.”
Erica’s eyes narrow slightly. “And that some of the money gets counted as legitimate revenue.”
“Bingo.” He takes a sip of his espresso, savoring it before continuing. “And then, my personal favorite - high-stakes poker.”
Erica exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Let me guess. Private, invite-only games. No cameras, no paper trails.”
“You’re catching on fast.” Cross grins. “The guest list is exclusive - big names, deep pockets and certain players. Some nights, the right people win. Other nights, the house does. The beauty? The house always takes a cut, and every dollar in play is either ‘clean’ or about to be.”
Erica studies him for a moment. “And the losses?”
“Covered.” He sets his cup down with a soft clink. “Pre-arranged deals. Certain players win, others don’t walk away truly broke - just lighter. And the money? It keeps moving.”
Cross runs a finger along the rim of his cup. “Slow and steady. A few hundred grand at a time, spread out. The Feds love looking for spikes. We don’t give them one. Smooth is key.”
A beat of silence passes between them, thick with understanding.
Then Cross exhales, stretching his arms slightly before locking eyes with Erica. “Of course, all of this only works if someone makes sure the money gets where it needs to go.”
Erica’s expression remains neutral, but there’s an unmistakable shift in the air.
Cross tilts his head. “That’s where you come in.”
Erica blinks once. “Of course.”
“You’ll distribute the cash. Spread it across the clubs, the restaurants, the casinos, the construction sites. Different amounts, different places, different times - so it never raises suspicion.”
He leans back, watching her carefully. “You handle the logistics. I stay out of it.”
Erica’s lips press together. “And in return…”
Cross’s grin returns, slow and satisfied. “You earn your cut. You only have to leave your office when the cash needs to be distributed.”
The implication is clear. This isn’t just about playing along - this is her job now. The next step of the game.
Erica exhales through her nose, fingers tapping lightly against her espresso cup. She’d known this was coming, but hearing it spelled out makes it feel heavier.
Finally, she nods, her voice quiet but steady. “Alright.”
What else could she say? She has taken 100.000 Dollar already, knows the scheme. Saying no would possibly mean signing her own death warrant.
Cross raises his cup slightly, as if in a toast. “Welcome to the family.”
Erica returns his little toast. She lets a small, knowing smile play at her lips before finishing her espresso.
“Thank you, Darren.” she whispers, setting the cup down. “Let’s get to work.”
~~~
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
Cross swirls the last sip of his espresso, watching Erica with that signature smirk of his - half amusement, half calculation. She holds his gaze steadily, waiting.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket again. This time, he hesitates. His fingers rest inside the pocket, tapping once against something unseen. A silent message.
A warning.
The air between them shifts. Subtly, but undeniably.
When he finally withdraws his hand, it’s not a gun - not that she expected one - but a single folded sheet of paper. He places it on the table between them, his fingertips pressing down on it as if weighing it in place.
“You’ll want to be very careful with this, Erica.”
His voice is smooth, even pleasant, but there’s an unmistakable undercurrent of steel beneath it. “This isn’t just a list of businesses. This is the bloodstream of the entire operation.”
Erica doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for the paper. Not yet.
Cross tilts his head slightly, as if studying her. “Most people don’t know which companies belong to me. Some think they do, but they only see what I let them see.”
He leans in just a fraction. “What’s on that page? That’s the truth. The kind of truth that doesn’t come with second chances.”
The espresso she drank earlier settles in her stomach like lead.
She doesn’t need him to elaborate.
This is beyond confidential. Beyond privileged information. This is the kind of knowledge that, if whispered in the wrong place, would turn her from a trusted partner into a liability. And in this business, liabilities don’t enjoy a long lifespan. She’d probably be dumped in a bio waste container.
Cross waits, his hand still resting lightly on the paper.
Erica lets the silence stretch just long enough. Not too long - hesitation could be mistaken for fear - but just enough to show him she understands the weight of what’s happening here. Then, with the same cool precision she applied to counting out her share of the cash, she reaches forward and takes the paper.
She doesn’t unfold it immediately. Instead, she meets Cross’s gaze, her voice measured, her tone dry.
“I never considered myself suicidal, Darren.”
For a moment, the tension lingers, crackling in the air between them like static before a storm.
Then Cross chuckles. Low, approving. He leans back, finally letting go of the paper. “Good. I’d hate to have misjudged you.”
Erica offers him a small, knowing smile. Then, with absolute calm, she unfolds the paper and begins to read.
“So,” she says, lifting her eyes to Cross. “If I’m reading this right, these are the businesses where I’ll be placing the cash. And the names - those are my contacts.”
She folds the paper neatly, slipping it into the inner pocket of her coat. Her fingers brush the fabric for a second longer than necessary, sealing the moment.
Cross nods once. “That’s right. I’ll let them know their new boss will be in touch within the next few days.” His smirk deepens, lazy, knowing. “In person.”
She matches his expression, cool and unreadable. Then, with the same quiet confidence, she nods and tucks the list away.
“Consider it done, Darren.”
Cross watches her for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with a slow exhale, he pushes his chair back and rises to his feet.
“Allow me to carry the cash to your car, Erica.”
His tone is smooth, polite even, but the subtle weight behind his words makes it clear: the meeting is over.
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she stands and retrieves her handbag as Cross lifts the two briefcases effortlessly and leads the way out of the sitting room, down the grand hallway, and through the carved wooden front doors of Crosswind.
Outside, the crisp air sharpens her senses as she steps onto the gravel driveway. Her black Volvo gleams under the weak afternoon sun, waiting.
Cross places the briefcases in the trunk with practiced ease, as if they were nothing more than an overnight bag and not a fortune in dirty cash. Erica reaches for the folded blanket she keeps in the back, draping it over the cases in one smooth motion.
That’s when she feels him.
Standing close.
Too close.
The scent of his cologne mingles with the cold air - deep, dark spices laced with something subtly intoxicating. And beneath it, she catches a trace of herself – lavender, her trademark perfume.
His hand settles on her right shoulder, fingers light at first, then pressing just enough to be felt through the fabric of her coat.
“Be in touch, Erica.”
His voice is quiet, nearly a whisper, the warmth of his breath teasing against her skin. There’s something about the way he says it - not quite a request. An order. A game. A test. A challenge.
Erica doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t step away. Instead, she finishes smoothing the blanket, then straightens and turns - slowly, deliberately - so that she brushes against him as she pivots to face him.
Just a fraction of a second too long.
Enough to make it unclear who moved first.
She lifts her chin, meets his gaze. Those sharp blue eyes of his - searching, assessing, amused.
“I will, Darren.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.
She steps aside, calm, unrushed, locking the car with a soft click before adjusting the strap of her handbag.
“I’ll have a look at Lea before I head home.”
Cross watches her for a moment, then nods. “Sure. Take your time.”
She nods back, then turns, walking toward the stables, the gravel crunching under her feet. The uneven ground ruins her heels, but she doesn’t slow.
Behind her, she can feel his eyes still on her.
And she doesn’t look back.
~~~
Her gaze trained on the stables ahead, she doesn’t see Chrissy standing at the top of the porch steps, nor the way Cross’s face tightens as his girl approaches, something dark brewing between them.
“Hello!” Erica announces herself as she steps into the stables, her voice carrying just enough warmth to soften the sharp edges of her day.
A heartbeat later, a familiar snorting sound comes from the third stall on the left. Lea.
Erica’s lips curve into a genuine smile as she strides down the aisle, the scent of hay, leather, and warm horse enveloping her like a childhood memory. She doesn’t even realize how much she’s missed this - until now.
Lea’s head pops over the half-door, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring as she recognizes Erica. The mare lets out a soft whinny, shifting impatiently, hooves scraping against the bedding.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Erica murmurs as she reaches her. She runs a hand down Lea’s strong, elegant neck, feeling the familiar warmth beneath her palm. The mare nudges at her shoulder, demanding more.
Erica chuckles. “I know, I know. I should have brought apples.”
She doesn’t care that she’s still in her black cashmere coat, perfectly tailored blazer, silk blouse and skirt. She unclips the latch and steps inside. Lea pushes her nose into Erica’s chest, and she wraps both arms around the mare’s head, burying her face in the soft, fragrant coat between her ears.
For the first time today Erica exhales fully.
She stays like that for a while, just breathing, letting the tension seep from her shoulders. Lea, ever patient, stands still, soaking up the affection. Then, slowly, Erica begins stroking down her sleek sides, feeling the strong muscles shift beneath her touch.
“This is ridiculous.” Erica murmurs to herself when she feels the unmistakable dampness in her eyes. She blinks it away quickly and leans back, rubbing at the tear stains on Lea’s coat with a wry smile. “Now you’re wearing my emotions. Good thing you don’t judge me.”
She brushes a few stray wood shavings from the mare’s mane, smoothing out the strands with her fingers. Her sleeves are already dusted with fine horsehair, the hem of her skirt smudged with something she doesn’t want to identify, and there’s likely another smear of something on her expensive blouse.
And she couldn’t care less.
“Next time, I’m coming prepared.” she promises aloud, stroking Lea’s forehead. “I don’t care how tight my schedule is. If I end up here, we ride.”
Lea snorts as if in agreement, then nudges Erica’s pocket.
“Nothing in there, girl.” Erica laughs softly. “Next time, I’ll have apples for you. I swear.”
She stays with Lea for another fifteen minutes, running her hands along the mare’s sides, pressing her cheek against her strong shoulder, whispering nonsense that neither of them really needs to understand. It’s enough just to be here.
Eventually, she sighs and steps back. “I have to go.”
Lea flicks an ear, unimpressed.
Erica chuckles, rubbing one last time behind the mare’s ear before stepping out of the stall. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”
As she secures the latch, Lea watches her, dark eyes steady. Erica lifts a hand in a quiet goodbye before turning and walking back toward the mansion.
Now Erica’s focus is on the drive ahead, on getting into touch with Sophie van Rey again.
She brushes some of the horsehair from her blazer as she reaches her car, but the smile on her lips lingers.
~~~
The highway stretches ahead, dark and slick under the overcast sky, but Erica barely notices. Her grip on the wheel is firm, her thoughts moving faster than the car slicing through the night. A couple of miles past Southampton, she pulls out her phone, her movements smooth, controlled. No hesitation.
“Can we meet in my office in two hours?” she asks without introduction, skipping the pleasantries.
Sophie van Rey doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be there.”
No questions, no small talk. Sophie knows Erica well enough to understand - if she’s asking to meet face to face, it’s serious. Something urgent. Something big.
Erica slides the phone back into her purse and fixes her gaze on the road ahead. The situation has shifted. Everything has shifted.
~~~
She pulls up in front of the mansion - sleek, traditional, deliberately understated in a way that only the truly rich can afford. The kind of place meant to impress without trying too hard.
The door opens before she even rings the bell.
Baker, the ever-efficient majordomo, stands at attention. Impeccable as always, his suit is crisp, his expression unreadable.
“Miss Sinclair.” he greets her with a polite nod. “Mr. Cross is expecting you.”
Of course, he is.
She steps inside, her heels, still stained by whatever dirt had accumulated at the recycling yard, clicking softly against the polished marble as Baker leads her down the hall.
The house is silent except for the faint hum of distant jazz - just enough to fill the space, not enough to intrude.
He stops at the sitting room and gestures her inside.
Cross is already there, relaxed, lounging in an armchair like he’s got all the time in the world. But it’s the table in front of him that draws Erica’s attention. Two briefcases. Black plastic still wrapped around them.
She lifts an eyebrow. “What are you, a part-time racing driver?”
Cross chuckles, unfazed as ever. “I like to stay ahead of the game.”
Baker steps forward with a silver tray, setting down two espressos - flawlessly presented, complete with a single sugar cube and tiny silver spoons. Without a word, he turns and disappears, leaving them alone behind closed doors.
Cross doesn’t rush. He peels the plastic away with deliberate care, then flicks open the latches. The scent of cash - real money - rises immediately.
Neat stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Cross watches her reaction, amused. “You had your share yesterday, Erica.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just meets his gaze, her expression cool. “Just making sure the supply doesn’t run dry.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “Smart girl. That’s why I hired you.”
Cross nudges one of the briefcases toward Erica. “Your cut. Help yourself.”
Erica, her expression unreadable as she glances at the neatly bundled stacks of cash, doesn’t hesitate.
With precise movements, she lifts out her share - fifty thousand in clean, crisp bundles of hundreds - placing it smoothly into her handbag.
Cross does the same, counting his portion into a leather shoulder bag before pushing the remaining money aside. He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly on the polished wood of the table.
"Now, for the fun part." he says.
Erica sips her espresso, waiting.
Cross gestures toward the leftover cash, the bulk of it. “This goes back into circulation through the businesses. Step by step. No sudden moves.”
From the inside pocket of his suit jacket, Cross pulls some papers.
He unfolds them carefully and lays them out on the table before Erica who reviews them with great attention: invoices for the recyclable materials – underdelivered and their prices massively inflated – to be paid into a bank account in the Cayman Islands.
“This is what Cross Recycling pays right away.” he explains. “So my Mexican friends don’t have to wait long for some of their money.”
Cross leans back in his chair, rolling his espresso cup between his fingers, the aroma of dark roast curling through the air. Across from him, Erica sits poised, legs crossed, her expression unreadable. The briefcases sit between them, still full of neatly stacked hundreds.
“So much for the easy part.” Cross says, gesturing lazily at the money. “Anyone can take a cut. The real skill is making the rest disappear.”
Erica lifts an eyebrow, waiting.
He smirks. “And that’s where the system comes in.”
Cross taps a finger against the table. “First, the clubs and restaurants. High-end joints - exclusive clientele, VIP lounges, places where no one questions a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne or a five-figure bar tab.” He shrugs. “We boost nightly earnings. Fake tabs, padded service fees, drinks that were never poured. Money walks in dirty, gets counted as revenue, and walks out clean.”
Erica nods slowly. “Skimming on one end, inflating on the other.”
“Exactly.” Cross’s grin widens. “Then there’s construction and waste management. That’s where things get creative.”
He leans forward slightly, fingers interlaced. “Cross Recycling handles contracts, transport, disposal. Trucks roll in, invoices go in and out. Some of them are real - others?” He gives a lazy flick of his wrist. “Let’s just say they document work that never happened. Scrap metal that was never processed. Repairs that were never made. Waste that was ‘hauled away’ but never actually existed.”
Erica’s eyes narrow slightly. “And that some of the money gets counted as legitimate revenue.”
“Bingo.” He takes a sip of his espresso, savoring it before continuing. “And then, my personal favorite - high-stakes poker.”
Erica exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Let me guess. Private, invite-only games. No cameras, no paper trails.”
“You’re catching on fast.” Cross grins. “The guest list is exclusive - big names, deep pockets and certain players. Some nights, the right people win. Other nights, the house does. The beauty? The house always takes a cut, and every dollar in play is either ‘clean’ or about to be.”
Erica studies him for a moment. “And the losses?”
“Covered.” He sets his cup down with a soft clink. “Pre-arranged deals. Certain players win, others don’t walk away truly broke - just lighter. And the money? It keeps moving.”
Cross runs a finger along the rim of his cup. “Slow and steady. A few hundred grand at a time, spread out. The Feds love looking for spikes. We don’t give them one. Smooth is key.”
A beat of silence passes between them, thick with understanding.
Then Cross exhales, stretching his arms slightly before locking eyes with Erica. “Of course, all of this only works if someone makes sure the money gets where it needs to go.”
Erica’s expression remains neutral, but there’s an unmistakable shift in the air.
Cross tilts his head. “That’s where you come in.”
Erica blinks once. “Of course.”
“You’ll distribute the cash. Spread it across the clubs, the restaurants, the casinos, the construction sites. Different amounts, different places, different times - so it never raises suspicion.”
He leans back, watching her carefully. “You handle the logistics. I stay out of it.”
Erica’s lips press together. “And in return…”
Cross’s grin returns, slow and satisfied. “You earn your cut. You only have to leave your office when the cash needs to be distributed.”
The implication is clear. This isn’t just about playing along - this is her job now. The next step of the game.
Erica exhales through her nose, fingers tapping lightly against her espresso cup. She’d known this was coming, but hearing it spelled out makes it feel heavier.
Finally, she nods, her voice quiet but steady. “Alright.”
What else could she say? She has taken 100.000 Dollar already, knows the scheme. Saying no would possibly mean signing her own death warrant.
Cross raises his cup slightly, as if in a toast. “Welcome to the family.”
Erica returns his little toast. She lets a small, knowing smile play at her lips before finishing her espresso.
“Thank you, Darren.” she whispers, setting the cup down. “Let’s get to work.”
~~~
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
Cross swirls the last sip of his espresso, watching Erica with that signature smirk of his - half amusement, half calculation. She holds his gaze steadily, waiting.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket again. This time, he hesitates. His fingers rest inside the pocket, tapping once against something unseen. A silent message.
A warning.
The air between them shifts. Subtly, but undeniably.
When he finally withdraws his hand, it’s not a gun - not that she expected one - but a single folded sheet of paper. He places it on the table between them, his fingertips pressing down on it as if weighing it in place.
“You’ll want to be very careful with this, Erica.”
His voice is smooth, even pleasant, but there’s an unmistakable undercurrent of steel beneath it. “This isn’t just a list of businesses. This is the bloodstream of the entire operation.”
Erica doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for the paper. Not yet.
Cross tilts his head slightly, as if studying her. “Most people don’t know which companies belong to me. Some think they do, but they only see what I let them see.”
He leans in just a fraction. “What’s on that page? That’s the truth. The kind of truth that doesn’t come with second chances.”
The espresso she drank earlier settles in her stomach like lead.
She doesn’t need him to elaborate.
This is beyond confidential. Beyond privileged information. This is the kind of knowledge that, if whispered in the wrong place, would turn her from a trusted partner into a liability. And in this business, liabilities don’t enjoy a long lifespan. She’d probably be dumped in a bio waste container.
Cross waits, his hand still resting lightly on the paper.
Erica lets the silence stretch just long enough. Not too long - hesitation could be mistaken for fear - but just enough to show him she understands the weight of what’s happening here. Then, with the same cool precision she applied to counting out her share of the cash, she reaches forward and takes the paper.
She doesn’t unfold it immediately. Instead, she meets Cross’s gaze, her voice measured, her tone dry.
“I never considered myself suicidal, Darren.”
For a moment, the tension lingers, crackling in the air between them like static before a storm.
Then Cross chuckles. Low, approving. He leans back, finally letting go of the paper. “Good. I’d hate to have misjudged you.”
Erica offers him a small, knowing smile. Then, with absolute calm, she unfolds the paper and begins to read.
“So,” she says, lifting her eyes to Cross. “If I’m reading this right, these are the businesses where I’ll be placing the cash. And the names - those are my contacts.”
She folds the paper neatly, slipping it into the inner pocket of her coat. Her fingers brush the fabric for a second longer than necessary, sealing the moment.
Cross nods once. “That’s right. I’ll let them know their new boss will be in touch within the next few days.” His smirk deepens, lazy, knowing. “In person.”
She matches his expression, cool and unreadable. Then, with the same quiet confidence, she nods and tucks the list away.
“Consider it done, Darren.”
Cross watches her for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with a slow exhale, he pushes his chair back and rises to his feet.
“Allow me to carry the cash to your car, Erica.”
His tone is smooth, polite even, but the subtle weight behind his words makes it clear: the meeting is over.
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she stands and retrieves her handbag as Cross lifts the two briefcases effortlessly and leads the way out of the sitting room, down the grand hallway, and through the carved wooden front doors of Crosswind.
Outside, the crisp air sharpens her senses as she steps onto the gravel driveway. Her black Volvo gleams under the weak afternoon sun, waiting.
Cross places the briefcases in the trunk with practiced ease, as if they were nothing more than an overnight bag and not a fortune in dirty cash. Erica reaches for the folded blanket she keeps in the back, draping it over the cases in one smooth motion.
That’s when she feels him.
Standing close.
Too close.
The scent of his cologne mingles with the cold air - deep, dark spices laced with something subtly intoxicating. And beneath it, she catches a trace of herself – lavender, her trademark perfume.
His hand settles on her right shoulder, fingers light at first, then pressing just enough to be felt through the fabric of her coat.
“Be in touch, Erica.”
His voice is quiet, nearly a whisper, the warmth of his breath teasing against her skin. There’s something about the way he says it - not quite a request. An order. A game. A test. A challenge.
Erica doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t step away. Instead, she finishes smoothing the blanket, then straightens and turns - slowly, deliberately - so that she brushes against him as she pivots to face him.
Just a fraction of a second too long.
Enough to make it unclear who moved first.
She lifts her chin, meets his gaze. Those sharp blue eyes of his - searching, assessing, amused.
“I will, Darren.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.
She steps aside, calm, unrushed, locking the car with a soft click before adjusting the strap of her handbag.
“I’ll have a look at Lea before I head home.”
Cross watches her for a moment, then nods. “Sure. Take your time.”
She nods back, then turns, walking toward the stables, the gravel crunching under her feet. The uneven ground ruins her heels, but she doesn’t slow.
Behind her, she can feel his eyes still on her.
And she doesn’t look back.
~~~
Her gaze trained on the stables ahead, she doesn’t see Chrissy standing at the top of the porch steps, nor the way Cross’s face tightens as his girl approaches, something dark brewing between them.
“Hello!” Erica announces herself as she steps into the stables, her voice carrying just enough warmth to soften the sharp edges of her day.
A heartbeat later, a familiar snorting sound comes from the third stall on the left. Lea.
Erica’s lips curve into a genuine smile as she strides down the aisle, the scent of hay, leather, and warm horse enveloping her like a childhood memory. She doesn’t even realize how much she’s missed this - until now.
Lea’s head pops over the half-door, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring as she recognizes Erica. The mare lets out a soft whinny, shifting impatiently, hooves scraping against the bedding.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Erica murmurs as she reaches her. She runs a hand down Lea’s strong, elegant neck, feeling the familiar warmth beneath her palm. The mare nudges at her shoulder, demanding more.
Erica chuckles. “I know, I know. I should have brought apples.”
She doesn’t care that she’s still in her black cashmere coat, perfectly tailored blazer, silk blouse and skirt. She unclips the latch and steps inside. Lea pushes her nose into Erica’s chest, and she wraps both arms around the mare’s head, burying her face in the soft, fragrant coat between her ears.
For the first time today Erica exhales fully.
She stays like that for a while, just breathing, letting the tension seep from her shoulders. Lea, ever patient, stands still, soaking up the affection. Then, slowly, Erica begins stroking down her sleek sides, feeling the strong muscles shift beneath her touch.
“This is ridiculous.” Erica murmurs to herself when she feels the unmistakable dampness in her eyes. She blinks it away quickly and leans back, rubbing at the tear stains on Lea’s coat with a wry smile. “Now you’re wearing my emotions. Good thing you don’t judge me.”
She brushes a few stray wood shavings from the mare’s mane, smoothing out the strands with her fingers. Her sleeves are already dusted with fine horsehair, the hem of her skirt smudged with something she doesn’t want to identify, and there’s likely another smear of something on her expensive blouse.
And she couldn’t care less.
“Next time, I’m coming prepared.” she promises aloud, stroking Lea’s forehead. “I don’t care how tight my schedule is. If I end up here, we ride.”
Lea snorts as if in agreement, then nudges Erica’s pocket.
“Nothing in there, girl.” Erica laughs softly. “Next time, I’ll have apples for you. I swear.”
She stays with Lea for another fifteen minutes, running her hands along the mare’s sides, pressing her cheek against her strong shoulder, whispering nonsense that neither of them really needs to understand. It’s enough just to be here.
Eventually, she sighs and steps back. “I have to go.”
Lea flicks an ear, unimpressed.
Erica chuckles, rubbing one last time behind the mare’s ear before stepping out of the stall. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”
As she secures the latch, Lea watches her, dark eyes steady. Erica lifts a hand in a quiet goodbye before turning and walking back toward the mansion.
Now Erica’s focus is on the drive ahead, on getting into touch with Sophie van Rey again.
She brushes some of the horsehair from her blazer as she reaches her car, but the smile on her lips lingers.
~~~
The highway stretches ahead, dark and slick under the overcast sky, but Erica barely notices. Her grip on the wheel is firm, her thoughts moving faster than the car slicing through the night. A couple of miles past Southampton, she pulls out her phone, her movements smooth, controlled. No hesitation.
“Can we meet in my office in two hours?” she asks without introduction, skipping the pleasantries.
Sophie van Rey doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be there.”
No questions, no small talk. Sophie knows Erica well enough to understand - if she’s asking to meet face to face, it’s serious. Something urgent. Something big.
Erica slides the phone back into her purse and fixes her gaze on the road ahead. The situation has shifted. Everything has shifted.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The plot thickens!
Dear @LunaDog like chicken dumplings and gravy
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Erica is a cool as grits. Cross is as cold as ice. Will Sophie match their temperature when the time comes?
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23
Now this here. This is a story. You've got me nice and interested from the settings to the characters.
Dear @GreyLord, ADA Sophie van Rey is a true professional. Can't disclose more without giving away too much.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Dear @JFBound1, thank you so much for your kind comment. I'm glad you are enjoying this story. If you check out my author's page over at Wattpad, you'll find all the previous Erica Sinclair stories.
I can assure you that there are many more stories set in the Ericaverse ready to be published and a couple in the making.
I can assure you that there are many more stories set in the Ericaverse ready to be published and a couple in the making.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
I hope I will find time to do some serious catching up with this magnificent Tale in the next Days @Jenny_S !
Dear @Caesar73, I know you've had a lot on your plate these past days. Enjoy the story, another part will come tonight.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
200,000+ Views – Thank You
When I started this story, I hoped a few of you would come along for the ride.
I never imagined this.
Two hundred thousand views.
That’s not just numbers — that’s time, eyes, and hearts you’ve given to Erica’s journey.
To justice.
To survival.
To the idea that one woman — no superpowers, just principle — can still make a difference.
Your messages, theories, comments, and quiet support are the reason this story lives and breathes.
You stood by Erica.
You made her real.
You reminded me that even the toughest stories are worth telling — and that you are listening.
Thank you.
From the bottom of my writer’s heart.
Love,
Jenny
When I started this story, I hoped a few of you would come along for the ride.
I never imagined this.
Two hundred thousand views.
That’s not just numbers — that’s time, eyes, and hearts you’ve given to Erica’s journey.
To justice.
To survival.
To the idea that one woman — no superpowers, just principle — can still make a difference.
Your messages, theories, comments, and quiet support are the reason this story lives and breathes.
You stood by Erica.
You made her real.
You reminded me that even the toughest stories are worth telling — and that you are listening.
Thank you.
From the bottom of my writer’s heart.
Love,
Jenny
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The underground parking garage at Sinclair & Associates is nearly silent, the steady hum of fluorescent lights filling the space. Erica pulls her black Volvo into its designated spot, cuts the engine, and allows herself a brief pause. A breath in, a breath out. Then she reaches for her bag and the two briefcases, their weight solid in her hands, grounding her as she steps into the waiting elevator.
The polished steel doors glide shut. In their reflective surface, she sees herself - a poised, professional woman in control. But her eyes betray her. Beneath the composed exterior, there’s something else. A flicker of tension. Determination sharpened to a fine edge.
She straightens, schooling her expression, forcing a small, practiced smile. Whatever happens next, she has to be ready.
When the elevator doors slide open onto the 25th floor, she steps into the quiet, sophisticated lobby of her firm.
The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers lingers in the air.
Holly Beck, her young receptionist, looks up from her desk, her smile crisp and professional. “Good evening, Miss Sinclair.”
“Evening, Holly.”
Erica nods, heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she moves toward Claire’s desk.
Her assistant glances up, immediately attuned to the shift in her demeanor.
“Claire, ADA van Rey will be here in half an hour. Please show her into my office. No calls or other visitors.”
Claire doesn’t ask questions - she never does. But Erica sees the quick flicker of understanding in her sharp gaze. “Of course, Erica. How about a glass of green tea?”
A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of Erica’s lips. “Please and thank you.”
A moment later, she steps into her office, shutting the door behind her. The two briefcases land with a quiet thud beside her desk. She crouches, pushing them under the polished mahogany, then straightens, brushing at her blazer.
Lea’s fine horsehair clings stubbornly to the dark fabric. A reminder of the moment she stole for herself earlier. The warmth of her mare’s breath, the solid weight of her against Erica’s palm. She sighs, absently plucking at the tiny strands.
Claire enters a beat later, setting a steaming glass of green tea on the desk. “I have a lint roller in my drawer. Be back in a second.”
Of course she does. This is so Claire, always attentive, always switched on.
True to her word, she returns swiftly, and with quiet efficiency, begins rolling the fine hairs away, restoring Erica’s impeccable appearance.
“Thanks, Claire,” Erica murmurs. “You’re a star.”
Claire smiles. “Anything for you.”
The intercom on Erica’s desk buzzes, Holly’s voice coming through, crisp and clear.
“ADA van Rey to see you, Miss Sinclair.”
Claire nods. “I’ll show her in.”
Erica takes a steadying breath, fingers brushing against the edge of her desk. She is ready to kick this up one notch.
~~~
A few moments later, Sophie van Rey enters, moving with her usual poised elegance. Tall, slim, and sharp as a blade, she takes in Erica’s expression and the slight tension in her shoulders before lowering herself into one of the visitor chairs.
“Tell me.” she says, her voice carrying a note of anticipation.
Erica reaches beneath her desk, pulling out the briefcases and placing them before Sophie. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she snaps open the latches and gestures
“Have a look.”
Sophie’s sharp, intelligent gaze sweeps over the neatly bundled stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Her lips part slightly, but she says nothing at first, only inhales slowly.
“Please help me count.” Erica says. “This money came from Mexico today hidden in a shipment of recycling materials. We took the shares for Cross and me, which leaves this…” She pulls the folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of her blazer and carefully lays it on the desk. “for me to distribute between these companies.”
Sophie opens the paper, scanning the names and addresses, her brows drawing together slightly as Erica stacks her share of 50.000 on the desk as well. “Plus the other 50.000 Dollar I still have at home.”
“Good grief.” she murmurs, shaking her head slightly. Then she looks up, meeting Erica’s eyes. “This just got real.”
Sophie exhales sharply, running a hand through her sleek blonde hair as she eyes the briefcases filled with cartel money. The weight of what Erica has just put on the table - both figuratively and literally - is impossible to ignore.
“This money is supposed to be funneled into Cross’s businesses, piece by piece, until it comes out the other end clean. This is how the system works.” She taps the list. “These are the companies. These are my contacts. And this is exactly how the cartel’s money gets laundered.”
Erica says, her voice just barely above a whisper.
Sophie studies her for a long moment, then looks at the stacks of bills again. “Serials will be all over the place.” she mutters. “It’s cartel cash, straight from their side hustles – drugs, human trafficking…whatever other crimes. This is direct proof of Cross’s involvement.”
“And Espinoza’s.” Erica says quietly. “We have everything. The operations, the money flow, the fake invoices, the poker games, the contacts, even the offshore accounts. But we need to make sure that when Cross goes down, the cartel does, too. Otherwise, I won’t make it out of this alive.”
Sophie’s sharp blue eyes lock onto hers. “It’s already in motion, Erica. The Feds are poised to take down Cross and his key people as soon as I give the word. And the moment the arrests happen, the Mexican Federales will hit Espinoza’s operation. Cartel lieutenants, stash houses, drug labs, money runners - every last one of them will be either behind bars or six feet under.”
Erica takes a slow breath, her heartbeat steady despite the enormity of what she’s setting in motion.
“This is as high-stakes as it gets, Sophie.” she says. “If anyone gets tipped off early - if Cross suspects, or if Espinoza gets wind of this - people die. Not just them. Us.”
“I know.” Sophie says, softer now. “That’s why we need to play this flawlessly.”
Erica straightens, her mind working at a thousand miles per hour. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’ll take these briefcases, and a copy of this list, straight to the Feds.” She says, her voice firm and confident. “I’ve been specifically instructed by Cross to meet with those contacts in person, so first thing tomorrow, I’ll call them and make sure that they are available for a face to face. When I know that they are, I’ll ask Cross to see him and give you the thumbs-up.”
Sophie listens and nods. “So the FBI and the Federales can hit simultaneously when you’re with Cross.”
“Exactly.” Erica says. “You co-ordinate with the authorities and then we will see.”
She exhales, tension coiling in her stomach like a loaded spring. Tomorrow, things are about to change dramatically.
Sophie stands, securing the briefcases, then looks at Erica. “You should go home. Keep your phone close. I’ll let you know if the Feds are in on your plan. Once we start this, there’s no undoing it.”
Erica nods once, standing as well, smoothing down her skirt. “I know.”
Then, as Sophie turns toward the door, Erica’s voice stops her.
“Sophie.”
The ADA looks back, brows raised.
Erica meets her gaze, unwavering. Before her inner eyes she can see her father standing in his study, looking at his daughter and as she touches the Rolex dive watch with the engraved creed on its back, she hears his voice telling her to “Stand for something or fall for anything.”
“Let’s do this.”
Sophie’s lips press into a thin line. “Good luck, Erica.”
And with that, she’s gone.
Erica leans against her desk, staring at the city skyline through the tall floor to ceiling glass windows.
If her plan works, Darren Cross, Rafael Espinoza and all their accomplices would either be in handcuffs - or dead. And Erica Sinclair would have paid her debt in full.
~~~
The apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city beyond the tall windows.
Erica sits on the floor, her back against the sleek leather couch, legs stretched out in front of her. The stem of a wine glass rests between her fingers, half-filled with deep, dark-red Nero d’Avola. She takes a slow sip, letting the bold, dark fruit notes settle on her tongue, but the usual comfort isn’t there. Her nerves are too raw.
She exhales, setting the glass on the floor beside her.
The kittens - tiny, mischievous creatures - have claimed her lap as their personal jungle gym. Tiger, the gray tabby with striking green eyes, bats at the drawstring of her hoodie, tugging it with playful determination. Spot, the black fluffball with the white tuft of fur on his chest, curls up against her stomach, purring softly. Their small warmth, the rhythmic hum of contentment, should be grounding.
It almost is.
Erica runs a slow hand over Tiger’s back, watching as he stretches luxuriously. Her other hand absently smooths the sleeve of her oversized “cat mom” sweatshirt - soft, well-worn – her favorite leisure wear.
For a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just a normal night. That tomorrow isn’t looming like a storm front.
Then her phone buzzes.
She doesn’t startle, but she does go very still, staring at the screen as it lights up.
Sophie is calling.
Carefully, she shifts the kittens, placing them gently on the plush throw blanket beside her before reaching for the phone.
She answers without preamble.
“They’re impressed.” Sophie says, her voice low but edged with something close to exhilaration. “FBI. US Marshals. Mexican Federales. The whole damn task force. Your list? It’s more than they expected. They’ve got everything in place for tomorrow.”
Erica listens. The weight of it settles over her like a dense fog.
This is real.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
She breathes in. Holds it for a beat. Exhales.
“Good.” she says, her voice quiet and steady, actually surprising herself.
There’s a pause on the other end, as if Sophie is waiting for more. When it doesn’t come, she only says, “I’ll see you tomorrow in Cross’ office.”
The call disconnects.
Erica sets the phone down beside her glass, staring at the dark liquid for a long moment before taking another slow sip.
One of the kittens noses at her wrist, oblivious to the weight pressing down on his mommy. She shifts, drawing her legs up, wrapping her arms loosely around them. The city glows outside, the skyline familiar, unchanging.
She wonders if it will still feel the same after tomorrow.
~~~
The polished steel doors glide shut. In their reflective surface, she sees herself - a poised, professional woman in control. But her eyes betray her. Beneath the composed exterior, there’s something else. A flicker of tension. Determination sharpened to a fine edge.
She straightens, schooling her expression, forcing a small, practiced smile. Whatever happens next, she has to be ready.
When the elevator doors slide open onto the 25th floor, she steps into the quiet, sophisticated lobby of her firm.
The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers lingers in the air.
Holly Beck, her young receptionist, looks up from her desk, her smile crisp and professional. “Good evening, Miss Sinclair.”
“Evening, Holly.”
Erica nods, heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she moves toward Claire’s desk.
Her assistant glances up, immediately attuned to the shift in her demeanor.
“Claire, ADA van Rey will be here in half an hour. Please show her into my office. No calls or other visitors.”
Claire doesn’t ask questions - she never does. But Erica sees the quick flicker of understanding in her sharp gaze. “Of course, Erica. How about a glass of green tea?”
A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of Erica’s lips. “Please and thank you.”
A moment later, she steps into her office, shutting the door behind her. The two briefcases land with a quiet thud beside her desk. She crouches, pushing them under the polished mahogany, then straightens, brushing at her blazer.
Lea’s fine horsehair clings stubbornly to the dark fabric. A reminder of the moment she stole for herself earlier. The warmth of her mare’s breath, the solid weight of her against Erica’s palm. She sighs, absently plucking at the tiny strands.
Claire enters a beat later, setting a steaming glass of green tea on the desk. “I have a lint roller in my drawer. Be back in a second.”
Of course she does. This is so Claire, always attentive, always switched on.
True to her word, she returns swiftly, and with quiet efficiency, begins rolling the fine hairs away, restoring Erica’s impeccable appearance.
“Thanks, Claire,” Erica murmurs. “You’re a star.”
Claire smiles. “Anything for you.”
The intercom on Erica’s desk buzzes, Holly’s voice coming through, crisp and clear.
“ADA van Rey to see you, Miss Sinclair.”
Claire nods. “I’ll show her in.”
Erica takes a steadying breath, fingers brushing against the edge of her desk. She is ready to kick this up one notch.
~~~
A few moments later, Sophie van Rey enters, moving with her usual poised elegance. Tall, slim, and sharp as a blade, she takes in Erica’s expression and the slight tension in her shoulders before lowering herself into one of the visitor chairs.
“Tell me.” she says, her voice carrying a note of anticipation.
Erica reaches beneath her desk, pulling out the briefcases and placing them before Sophie. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she snaps open the latches and gestures
“Have a look.”
Sophie’s sharp, intelligent gaze sweeps over the neatly bundled stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Her lips part slightly, but she says nothing at first, only inhales slowly.
“Please help me count.” Erica says. “This money came from Mexico today hidden in a shipment of recycling materials. We took the shares for Cross and me, which leaves this…” She pulls the folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of her blazer and carefully lays it on the desk. “for me to distribute between these companies.”
Sophie opens the paper, scanning the names and addresses, her brows drawing together slightly as Erica stacks her share of 50.000 on the desk as well. “Plus the other 50.000 Dollar I still have at home.”
“Good grief.” she murmurs, shaking her head slightly. Then she looks up, meeting Erica’s eyes. “This just got real.”
Sophie exhales sharply, running a hand through her sleek blonde hair as she eyes the briefcases filled with cartel money. The weight of what Erica has just put on the table - both figuratively and literally - is impossible to ignore.
“This money is supposed to be funneled into Cross’s businesses, piece by piece, until it comes out the other end clean. This is how the system works.” She taps the list. “These are the companies. These are my contacts. And this is exactly how the cartel’s money gets laundered.”
Erica says, her voice just barely above a whisper.
Sophie studies her for a long moment, then looks at the stacks of bills again. “Serials will be all over the place.” she mutters. “It’s cartel cash, straight from their side hustles – drugs, human trafficking…whatever other crimes. This is direct proof of Cross’s involvement.”
“And Espinoza’s.” Erica says quietly. “We have everything. The operations, the money flow, the fake invoices, the poker games, the contacts, even the offshore accounts. But we need to make sure that when Cross goes down, the cartel does, too. Otherwise, I won’t make it out of this alive.”
Sophie’s sharp blue eyes lock onto hers. “It’s already in motion, Erica. The Feds are poised to take down Cross and his key people as soon as I give the word. And the moment the arrests happen, the Mexican Federales will hit Espinoza’s operation. Cartel lieutenants, stash houses, drug labs, money runners - every last one of them will be either behind bars or six feet under.”
Erica takes a slow breath, her heartbeat steady despite the enormity of what she’s setting in motion.
“This is as high-stakes as it gets, Sophie.” she says. “If anyone gets tipped off early - if Cross suspects, or if Espinoza gets wind of this - people die. Not just them. Us.”
“I know.” Sophie says, softer now. “That’s why we need to play this flawlessly.”
Erica straightens, her mind working at a thousand miles per hour. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’ll take these briefcases, and a copy of this list, straight to the Feds.” She says, her voice firm and confident. “I’ve been specifically instructed by Cross to meet with those contacts in person, so first thing tomorrow, I’ll call them and make sure that they are available for a face to face. When I know that they are, I’ll ask Cross to see him and give you the thumbs-up.”
Sophie listens and nods. “So the FBI and the Federales can hit simultaneously when you’re with Cross.”
“Exactly.” Erica says. “You co-ordinate with the authorities and then we will see.”
She exhales, tension coiling in her stomach like a loaded spring. Tomorrow, things are about to change dramatically.
Sophie stands, securing the briefcases, then looks at Erica. “You should go home. Keep your phone close. I’ll let you know if the Feds are in on your plan. Once we start this, there’s no undoing it.”
Erica nods once, standing as well, smoothing down her skirt. “I know.”
Then, as Sophie turns toward the door, Erica’s voice stops her.
“Sophie.”
The ADA looks back, brows raised.
Erica meets her gaze, unwavering. Before her inner eyes she can see her father standing in his study, looking at his daughter and as she touches the Rolex dive watch with the engraved creed on its back, she hears his voice telling her to “Stand for something or fall for anything.”
“Let’s do this.”
Sophie’s lips press into a thin line. “Good luck, Erica.”
And with that, she’s gone.
Erica leans against her desk, staring at the city skyline through the tall floor to ceiling glass windows.
If her plan works, Darren Cross, Rafael Espinoza and all their accomplices would either be in handcuffs - or dead. And Erica Sinclair would have paid her debt in full.
~~~
The apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city beyond the tall windows.
Erica sits on the floor, her back against the sleek leather couch, legs stretched out in front of her. The stem of a wine glass rests between her fingers, half-filled with deep, dark-red Nero d’Avola. She takes a slow sip, letting the bold, dark fruit notes settle on her tongue, but the usual comfort isn’t there. Her nerves are too raw.
She exhales, setting the glass on the floor beside her.
The kittens - tiny, mischievous creatures - have claimed her lap as their personal jungle gym. Tiger, the gray tabby with striking green eyes, bats at the drawstring of her hoodie, tugging it with playful determination. Spot, the black fluffball with the white tuft of fur on his chest, curls up against her stomach, purring softly. Their small warmth, the rhythmic hum of contentment, should be grounding.
It almost is.
Erica runs a slow hand over Tiger’s back, watching as he stretches luxuriously. Her other hand absently smooths the sleeve of her oversized “cat mom” sweatshirt - soft, well-worn – her favorite leisure wear.
For a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just a normal night. That tomorrow isn’t looming like a storm front.
Then her phone buzzes.
She doesn’t startle, but she does go very still, staring at the screen as it lights up.
Sophie is calling.
Carefully, she shifts the kittens, placing them gently on the plush throw blanket beside her before reaching for the phone.
She answers without preamble.
“They’re impressed.” Sophie says, her voice low but edged with something close to exhilaration. “FBI. US Marshals. Mexican Federales. The whole damn task force. Your list? It’s more than they expected. They’ve got everything in place for tomorrow.”
Erica listens. The weight of it settles over her like a dense fog.
This is real.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
She breathes in. Holds it for a beat. Exhales.
“Good.” she says, her voice quiet and steady, actually surprising herself.
There’s a pause on the other end, as if Sophie is waiting for more. When it doesn’t come, she only says, “I’ll see you tomorrow in Cross’ office.”
The call disconnects.
Erica sets the phone down beside her glass, staring at the dark liquid for a long moment before taking another slow sip.
One of the kittens noses at her wrist, oblivious to the weight pressing down on his mommy. She shifts, drawing her legs up, wrapping her arms loosely around them. The city glows outside, the skyline familiar, unchanging.
She wonders if it will still feel the same after tomorrow.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Morning comes too soon.
Erica moves through her routine with meticulous precision, as if following each step with great precision will trick her body into believing today is like any other.
She runs her usual route through Central Park, her sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythmic strides. The crisp morning air stings her lungs, but she welcomes it. It keeps her sharp. Focused.
Back home, she showers, letting the hot water scald away the tension coiled in her shoulders. After putting on her minimalist makeup, she dresses carefully - tailored skirt, silk blouse, the fitted blazer that gives her the extra edge of sharpness she needs today.
In the kitchen, she brews coffee, the rich aroma curling into the air. She cradles the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she walks into the living room.
Her gaze drifts to the cabinet between the two tall windows. To the photo she had buried under her bed in the shoebox for too long.
She sets her coffee down, reaches for the picture.
The photo is slightly worn at the edges. A snapshot of a different time. A different her.
She studies it, her fingers brushing lightly over the glossy surface. It is the only photograph she has of the three of them together.
Stand for something or fall for anything.
Her father’s voice echoes in her mind, the same way it did last night. The same way it always does when it reminds her of who she is.
Erica exhales, slow and measured, before setting the frame back on the cabinet.
A glance at her Rolex tells her it’s time.
She moves with deliberate ease, carrying her empty mug to the kitchen. Rinses it out in the sink, places it carefully in the dishwasher. Small, ordinary motions. Her hands are steady. This is good.
In the living room, the kittens are feasting on their breakfast, tiny jaws working eagerly on the shredded chicken breast pulp she prepared for them. Their world is simple. Warm beds, full bellies, a mother who always comes home.
Erica doesn’t allow herself to think about what happens if she doesn’t.
She unfolds the list Cross gave her, smooths it out on the table. Her notepad is already open, pen poised. Without hesitation, she reaches for her phone and dials the first number.
It begins.
“This is Erica Sinclair. Mr. Cross will have told you I’d be calling…”
One by one, she works her way down the list. Thirty-six minutes and nine calls later, every contact has been informed. Each one has agreed to meet with her today, knows that they need to clear their daily schedule for her.
There is only one call left to make.
She dials Darren Cross’s personal number. The line rings five times before he picks up.
“Hi, Erica.”
His voice is smooth, easy - too easy.
“Darren.” Her tone is soft, just the right amount of hesitation laced into it. “I’ve arranged to meet everybody today…and I was wondering…”
She lets the pause linger.
Cross takes the bait. “What?”
“We need to finish something we started the other day, Darren. Before you took me out to lunch…”
Another pause. She imagines him leaning back in his chair, that smug, self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.
“Sure.” he says, the arrogance creeping into his voice. He thinks she’s coming to him willingly. Thinks he’s won.
“My office.”
Erica smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “On my way.”
She disconnects the call and sends a single message to Sophie van Rey.
11 o’clock.
Nothing else needs to be said.
Erica slips into her coat, smooths the lapels, then slings her handbag over her shoulder. She crouches beside the kittens, who are already beginning to slow in their eating, bellies full and drowsy.
“I’ll see you tonight.” she murmurs, stroking behind their tiny ears. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”
Then she stands.
And walks out the door.
~~~
Despite the late morning traffic, getting to Cross’ office on Liberty Street is effortless.
Too easy even.
The security guards at the underground parking entrance greet Erica with familiar smiles, waving her through without a second glance. They have no idea what's coming.
As she steers her black Volvo into a visitor parking spot, she grips the wheel for a second longer than necessary.
The FBI. The Marshals. Whoever’s running the raid - they better be good. If even one thing goes sideways, these guards might end up in body bags. And if Cross catches on too soon... so might she.
She exhales slowly, steadying herself. Then she reaches for her handbag and slides out of the car.
The elevator guard holds the door for her. Another polite smile. They all like her here. She’s been careful to build that trust she enjoys as Cross’ new…associate.
"Good morning!" she says as she steps inside.
The moment the doors close, she unbuttons her coat, adjusting the lapels of her suit jacket. A familiar wave of calmness washes over her. The kind that comes when the stakes are impossibly high - when there’s no room left for doubt.
Like an echo from the past, she hears her father’s voice:
"The world will ask you who you are, and if you don’t know, the world will tell you."
So true, she thinks as her fingers brush the Rolex on her wrist. I know who I am. She is her parents’ daughter. And she is doing her best to be the woman her father wanted her to be.
The ride up to the office suite is smooth. The doors slide open, revealing the heart of Darren Cross’ empire.
Shelly - the receptionist, or whatever her true function may be - smiles like a woman conditioned to please powerful people. Her perfect white teeth flash as she sings out, "Hello, Miss Sinclair. Mr. Cross is expecting you."
“Thanks, Shelly. No need to walk me. I know the way.” Erica’s voice carries just enough authority.
Shelly hesitates, but nods. As Erica strides past, she hears the intercom click. “Mr. Cross, Miss Sinclair is here.”
Too late for him to change his fate now.
She knocks once before stepping inside.
It’s Eight minutes to eleven.
~~~
Erica moves through her routine with meticulous precision, as if following each step with great precision will trick her body into believing today is like any other.
She runs her usual route through Central Park, her sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythmic strides. The crisp morning air stings her lungs, but she welcomes it. It keeps her sharp. Focused.
Back home, she showers, letting the hot water scald away the tension coiled in her shoulders. After putting on her minimalist makeup, she dresses carefully - tailored skirt, silk blouse, the fitted blazer that gives her the extra edge of sharpness she needs today.
In the kitchen, she brews coffee, the rich aroma curling into the air. She cradles the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she walks into the living room.
Her gaze drifts to the cabinet between the two tall windows. To the photo she had buried under her bed in the shoebox for too long.
She sets her coffee down, reaches for the picture.
The photo is slightly worn at the edges. A snapshot of a different time. A different her.
She studies it, her fingers brushing lightly over the glossy surface. It is the only photograph she has of the three of them together.
Stand for something or fall for anything.
Her father’s voice echoes in her mind, the same way it did last night. The same way it always does when it reminds her of who she is.
Erica exhales, slow and measured, before setting the frame back on the cabinet.
A glance at her Rolex tells her it’s time.
She moves with deliberate ease, carrying her empty mug to the kitchen. Rinses it out in the sink, places it carefully in the dishwasher. Small, ordinary motions. Her hands are steady. This is good.
In the living room, the kittens are feasting on their breakfast, tiny jaws working eagerly on the shredded chicken breast pulp she prepared for them. Their world is simple. Warm beds, full bellies, a mother who always comes home.
Erica doesn’t allow herself to think about what happens if she doesn’t.
She unfolds the list Cross gave her, smooths it out on the table. Her notepad is already open, pen poised. Without hesitation, she reaches for her phone and dials the first number.
It begins.
“This is Erica Sinclair. Mr. Cross will have told you I’d be calling…”
One by one, she works her way down the list. Thirty-six minutes and nine calls later, every contact has been informed. Each one has agreed to meet with her today, knows that they need to clear their daily schedule for her.
There is only one call left to make.
She dials Darren Cross’s personal number. The line rings five times before he picks up.
“Hi, Erica.”
His voice is smooth, easy - too easy.
“Darren.” Her tone is soft, just the right amount of hesitation laced into it. “I’ve arranged to meet everybody today…and I was wondering…”
She lets the pause linger.
Cross takes the bait. “What?”
“We need to finish something we started the other day, Darren. Before you took me out to lunch…”
Another pause. She imagines him leaning back in his chair, that smug, self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.
“Sure.” he says, the arrogance creeping into his voice. He thinks she’s coming to him willingly. Thinks he’s won.
“My office.”
Erica smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “On my way.”
She disconnects the call and sends a single message to Sophie van Rey.
11 o’clock.
Nothing else needs to be said.
Erica slips into her coat, smooths the lapels, then slings her handbag over her shoulder. She crouches beside the kittens, who are already beginning to slow in their eating, bellies full and drowsy.
“I’ll see you tonight.” she murmurs, stroking behind their tiny ears. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”
Then she stands.
And walks out the door.
~~~
Despite the late morning traffic, getting to Cross’ office on Liberty Street is effortless.
Too easy even.
The security guards at the underground parking entrance greet Erica with familiar smiles, waving her through without a second glance. They have no idea what's coming.
As she steers her black Volvo into a visitor parking spot, she grips the wheel for a second longer than necessary.
The FBI. The Marshals. Whoever’s running the raid - they better be good. If even one thing goes sideways, these guards might end up in body bags. And if Cross catches on too soon... so might she.
She exhales slowly, steadying herself. Then she reaches for her handbag and slides out of the car.
The elevator guard holds the door for her. Another polite smile. They all like her here. She’s been careful to build that trust she enjoys as Cross’ new…associate.
"Good morning!" she says as she steps inside.
The moment the doors close, she unbuttons her coat, adjusting the lapels of her suit jacket. A familiar wave of calmness washes over her. The kind that comes when the stakes are impossibly high - when there’s no room left for doubt.
Like an echo from the past, she hears her father’s voice:
"The world will ask you who you are, and if you don’t know, the world will tell you."
So true, she thinks as her fingers brush the Rolex on her wrist. I know who I am. She is her parents’ daughter. And she is doing her best to be the woman her father wanted her to be.
The ride up to the office suite is smooth. The doors slide open, revealing the heart of Darren Cross’ empire.
Shelly - the receptionist, or whatever her true function may be - smiles like a woman conditioned to please powerful people. Her perfect white teeth flash as she sings out, "Hello, Miss Sinclair. Mr. Cross is expecting you."
“Thanks, Shelly. No need to walk me. I know the way.” Erica’s voice carries just enough authority.
Shelly hesitates, but nods. As Erica strides past, she hears the intercom click. “Mr. Cross, Miss Sinclair is here.”
Too late for him to change his fate now.
She knocks once before stepping inside.
It’s Eight minutes to eleven.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The point of no return? Told totally magnificentally as is normal with you, Jenny.
Dear @LunaDog, you're right. It's time to confront the dragon. Thank you so much for your kind comment.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Things are moving to the finale, too smoothly. Does Cross plan a surprise of his own?
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23
Dear @GreyLord, I wouldn't be surprised if Cross wouldn't have an ace up his sleeve.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The office is drenched in amber light, the kind that turns everything rich and expensive.
In this case, it actually is.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline. The air smells of whisky, leather, and power.
Cross stands by the bar, pouring himself a drink. Ice clinks against crystal.
He smiles. Confident. Predatory.
“Hey, babe.” he says, sipping the fine single malt, watching her like a king surveying his kingdom.
“Darren.” Her voice is low, warm. Feigning attraction.
"You've got my Captains on their toes already." he says, amused. "I like that."
She sets her bag down, lets her coat slide off her shoulders in one smooth motion. Cross watches. He always watches.
“High praise, coming from you.” She smirks, accepting the heavy crystal tumbler he offers. Takes a slow sip. Lets him think he’s winning.
His eyes track the movement of her lips against the glass. He tilts his head, stepping closer.
"You’re different than the others." he murmurs, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her cheek.
The touch is light - calculated. Testing.
She doesn’t flinch.
But inside, her skin burns. Every instinct screams to recoil. To break his hand. But she won’t. Not yet.
He waits for a reaction. She gives him nothing.
"I never wanted to be like the others." she says, voice smooth as silk over steel. Her hand doesn’t shake – calm, collected, switched on.
Cross smiles. Slow. Knowing. "No." he agrees. "You definitely are not."
His fingers trail lower. Skimming the curve of her jaw. Down the column of her throat.
Not forceful. Not yet. Just a reminder. A reminder of power. That no one tells him no.
But Erica Sinclair is not just anyone.
She leans in. Just enough to make him think he’s won. Just enough to let him believe he’s in control.
Then she kisses him.
Not soft. Not sweet. Hard. Deliberate. A calculated collision of mouths that has nothing to do with surrender.
Cross responds instantly. His hands grip her waist. Pull her flush against him. There’s possession in the way his hands slide over her body. He tries to take, to claim.
She lets him - for a moment.
Then, just as suddenly, she shifts.
Her hand slips between them, fingers brushing below his belt. Teasing. Feeling the hard outline of his manhood. Holding him there for the briefest second - then she pulls away.
Cross exhales sharply. His pupils darken, frustration bleeding into his features.
Erica tilts her head, smirking. "You don’t own me, Darren."
Something flickers behind his eyes. Frustration? Anger? Suspicion?
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t like this. Never liked being thrown off balance.
“You’ll figure it out.” she murmurs. If he only knew how much she despises men like him, how much it cost her to play along.
The silence stretches.
Then…
A commotion.
Boots hitting marble. Raised voices. Shelly’s startled cry.
Cross frowns. “What the…”
The office door bursts open.
Six men storm inside, black uniforms, bulletproof vests, weapons trained – on Cross and Erica.
“US MARSHALS! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
“ON THE GROUND! NOW!”
The next moment, Cross gets tackled to the floor by two of the men.
Erica barely flinches as someone shoves her against the bar, yanking her arms behind her back, locking her wrists in cold steel handcuffs.
She doesn’t resist.
Because this is the plan.
A tall figure steps into the chaos, cutting through it like a blade.
Sophie van Rey -her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, a bulletproof vest over her crisp white blouse, her polished badge hanging from a chain around her neck.
Her voice is steady, sharp as a gunshot.
“Darren Cross. Erica Sinclair. You’re under arrest.”
Cross thrashes against the Marshals pinning him down.
“You have nothing on me!” he shouts. “I want my lawyer!”
Sophie barely looks at him as she motions toward the door.
“Take him away.”
The Marshals haul Cross to his feet, dragging him from the room as he spits curses.
Erica keeps her expression blank, continuing to play her part. Silent. Compliant. She risks a glance at Cross who’s being marched down the hallway toward the elevator.
By now it will have dawned on him that his empire is burning.
Sophie’s eyes flick to her for half a second.
And then she looks away.
The plan is in motion.
And there’s no stopping it now.
~~~
"Are you coming?" Sophie van Rey’s voice is calm, but there’s a quiet urgency beneath it.
Erica tugs lightly at the handcuffs, feeling the cold steel bite into her wrists.
"Do I look like I have a choice?" she says dryly.
She walks beside Sophie toward the elevators, flanked by two Marshals in tactical gear. The weight of what just happened - the arrest, the takedown, the sheer scope of it - still lingers in the air like the last vibrations of a gunshot.
At the reception desk, Shelly stands frozen, gripping the edge of the polished marble top like it might keep her upright. The confident, flirtatious veneer is gone. She looks like someone who just realized they were working for the devil.
As the elevator doors slide shut behind Sophie, Erica, and the two men, Shelly turns to one of the FBI agents still securing the area.
"Am I out of a job now?" she asks, her voice small.
The agent doesn’t answer.
~~~
The elevator ride down is silent, but Erica feels the weight of Sophie’s gaze on her. The doors open to the underground parking, and Erica’s senses sharpen immediately.
Everything is locked down. Armed FBI agents and US Marshals line the perimeter, scanning for any remaining threats. None of Cross’ men are in sight. The place belongs to the government now.
Sophie nods to the two Marshals. "Release her."
The moment the handcuffs click open, Erica rubs her wrists, feeling the blood rush back into her hands. It takes effort to keep her voice steady. "Thanks."
She exhales. "Any word from the other teams?"
Sophie unlocks her phone, scanning a stream of messages. "FBI and the others report everything went smoothly. But the Federales…" She pauses, scrolling, her brow furrowing. "No word yet."
A cold shiver coils around Erica’s spine.
If Espinoza and his men weren’t taken down in one swift strike, if even one of them slipped through, all the other arrests would mean nothing. They would regroup, retaliate, and she would be a prime target.
Sophie tucks her phone away. "Come see me in my office later, okay?"
Erica nods.
A Marshal hands her coat and handbag. "You okay, ma’am?"
She doesn’t sugarcoat it. "Ask me when the Federales call in."
Sliding her arms into the coat, she tightens the belt around her waist. "But thanks for asking."
She unlocks her Volvo, slips inside. And then…
Her hands start shaking.
Fingers gripping the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, she clenches her jaw. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving her body trembling in its wake.
"You’ve come this far." she whispers to herself. "Now pull yourself together."
She turns the ignition and takes the car up the ramp, merging the Volvo into traffic.
~~~
In this case, it actually is.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline. The air smells of whisky, leather, and power.
Cross stands by the bar, pouring himself a drink. Ice clinks against crystal.
He smiles. Confident. Predatory.
“Hey, babe.” he says, sipping the fine single malt, watching her like a king surveying his kingdom.
“Darren.” Her voice is low, warm. Feigning attraction.
"You've got my Captains on their toes already." he says, amused. "I like that."
She sets her bag down, lets her coat slide off her shoulders in one smooth motion. Cross watches. He always watches.
“High praise, coming from you.” She smirks, accepting the heavy crystal tumbler he offers. Takes a slow sip. Lets him think he’s winning.
His eyes track the movement of her lips against the glass. He tilts his head, stepping closer.
"You’re different than the others." he murmurs, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her cheek.
The touch is light - calculated. Testing.
She doesn’t flinch.
But inside, her skin burns. Every instinct screams to recoil. To break his hand. But she won’t. Not yet.
He waits for a reaction. She gives him nothing.
"I never wanted to be like the others." she says, voice smooth as silk over steel. Her hand doesn’t shake – calm, collected, switched on.
Cross smiles. Slow. Knowing. "No." he agrees. "You definitely are not."
His fingers trail lower. Skimming the curve of her jaw. Down the column of her throat.
Not forceful. Not yet. Just a reminder. A reminder of power. That no one tells him no.
But Erica Sinclair is not just anyone.
She leans in. Just enough to make him think he’s won. Just enough to let him believe he’s in control.
Then she kisses him.
Not soft. Not sweet. Hard. Deliberate. A calculated collision of mouths that has nothing to do with surrender.
Cross responds instantly. His hands grip her waist. Pull her flush against him. There’s possession in the way his hands slide over her body. He tries to take, to claim.
She lets him - for a moment.
Then, just as suddenly, she shifts.
Her hand slips between them, fingers brushing below his belt. Teasing. Feeling the hard outline of his manhood. Holding him there for the briefest second - then she pulls away.
Cross exhales sharply. His pupils darken, frustration bleeding into his features.
Erica tilts her head, smirking. "You don’t own me, Darren."
Something flickers behind his eyes. Frustration? Anger? Suspicion?
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t like this. Never liked being thrown off balance.
“You’ll figure it out.” she murmurs. If he only knew how much she despises men like him, how much it cost her to play along.
The silence stretches.
Then…
A commotion.
Boots hitting marble. Raised voices. Shelly’s startled cry.
Cross frowns. “What the…”
The office door bursts open.
Six men storm inside, black uniforms, bulletproof vests, weapons trained – on Cross and Erica.
“US MARSHALS! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
“ON THE GROUND! NOW!”
The next moment, Cross gets tackled to the floor by two of the men.
Erica barely flinches as someone shoves her against the bar, yanking her arms behind her back, locking her wrists in cold steel handcuffs.
She doesn’t resist.
Because this is the plan.
A tall figure steps into the chaos, cutting through it like a blade.
Sophie van Rey -her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, a bulletproof vest over her crisp white blouse, her polished badge hanging from a chain around her neck.
Her voice is steady, sharp as a gunshot.
“Darren Cross. Erica Sinclair. You’re under arrest.”
Cross thrashes against the Marshals pinning him down.
“You have nothing on me!” he shouts. “I want my lawyer!”
Sophie barely looks at him as she motions toward the door.
“Take him away.”
The Marshals haul Cross to his feet, dragging him from the room as he spits curses.
Erica keeps her expression blank, continuing to play her part. Silent. Compliant. She risks a glance at Cross who’s being marched down the hallway toward the elevator.
By now it will have dawned on him that his empire is burning.
Sophie’s eyes flick to her for half a second.
And then she looks away.
The plan is in motion.
And there’s no stopping it now.
~~~
"Are you coming?" Sophie van Rey’s voice is calm, but there’s a quiet urgency beneath it.
Erica tugs lightly at the handcuffs, feeling the cold steel bite into her wrists.
"Do I look like I have a choice?" she says dryly.
She walks beside Sophie toward the elevators, flanked by two Marshals in tactical gear. The weight of what just happened - the arrest, the takedown, the sheer scope of it - still lingers in the air like the last vibrations of a gunshot.
At the reception desk, Shelly stands frozen, gripping the edge of the polished marble top like it might keep her upright. The confident, flirtatious veneer is gone. She looks like someone who just realized they were working for the devil.
As the elevator doors slide shut behind Sophie, Erica, and the two men, Shelly turns to one of the FBI agents still securing the area.
"Am I out of a job now?" she asks, her voice small.
The agent doesn’t answer.
~~~
The elevator ride down is silent, but Erica feels the weight of Sophie’s gaze on her. The doors open to the underground parking, and Erica’s senses sharpen immediately.
Everything is locked down. Armed FBI agents and US Marshals line the perimeter, scanning for any remaining threats. None of Cross’ men are in sight. The place belongs to the government now.
Sophie nods to the two Marshals. "Release her."
The moment the handcuffs click open, Erica rubs her wrists, feeling the blood rush back into her hands. It takes effort to keep her voice steady. "Thanks."
She exhales. "Any word from the other teams?"
Sophie unlocks her phone, scanning a stream of messages. "FBI and the others report everything went smoothly. But the Federales…" She pauses, scrolling, her brow furrowing. "No word yet."
A cold shiver coils around Erica’s spine.
If Espinoza and his men weren’t taken down in one swift strike, if even one of them slipped through, all the other arrests would mean nothing. They would regroup, retaliate, and she would be a prime target.
Sophie tucks her phone away. "Come see me in my office later, okay?"
Erica nods.
A Marshal hands her coat and handbag. "You okay, ma’am?"
She doesn’t sugarcoat it. "Ask me when the Federales call in."
Sliding her arms into the coat, she tightens the belt around her waist. "But thanks for asking."
She unlocks her Volvo, slips inside. And then…
Her hands start shaking.
Fingers gripping the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, she clenches her jaw. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving her body trembling in its wake.
"You’ve come this far." she whispers to herself. "Now pull yourself together."
She turns the ignition and takes the car up the ramp, merging the Volvo into traffic.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing