The phone woke him at 6:17 AM.
Dayo reached for it without opening his eyes, muscle mory from years of international calls pulling him out of sleep before his brain caught up. Three texts from Valery, each shorter than the last.
6:12 AM: "Check the news."
6:14 AM: "Graham Whitfield. Soone leaked his files."
6:16 AM: "They’re saying it ca from you."
Dayo sat up. Beside him, Luna made a small sound and rolled toward Jennifer’s crib, her arm reaching out to check the baby without conscious thought. Dayo stared at the screen until his eyes adjusted.
He opened his browser. The headline loaded in two seconds, which felt like two minutes.
"Offshore Empire: How a British Property Tycoon Routed $18 Million Through Panama to Kill an Investigation."
Warren Castellano. Byline. So Washington financial paper Dayo had never heard of.
He scrolled. The article had everything. Account numbers. Routing codes. Graham’s signatures on docunts that shouldn’t have existed outside a vault. The São Paulo paynt from 2017, laid out with surgical precision. Dayo read it twice. Then a third ti, slower, his thumb moving in short jerks as he absorbed each paragraph.
He didn’t write this.
He hadn’t leaked this.
He had told Michael to let Silas know he had files. He had bluffed, completely, staring down a threat to his daughter with nothing but confidence and an empty hand. Felix had found a window into Silas’s network, yes. They had observed traffic patterns, mapped architecture, confird Eleanor Vane’s existence. But they had never extracted docunts. Never downloaded files. Never breached the network in a way that could produce eighteen million dollars worth of evidence against Graham Whitfield.
Yet here it was. Real. Detailed. Devastating.
And the sourcing — Dayo read the final paragraph three tis before it sank in.
"Sources close to the investigation suggest the leak originated from a Los Angeles-based entertainnt conglorate with prior grievances against the Whitfield business network."
No na. No direct attribution. But the finger pointed unmistakably. Los Angeles-based entertainnt conglorate. Prior grievances. Everyone who mattered would read that sentence and see his face behind it.
Luna’s voice ca from the dark, thick with sleep. "What is it?"
Dayo didn’t answer. He was already out of bed, pulling on his pants, walking barefoot into the living room where the morning light was bleeding through the blinds. He called Felix.
Four rings. Then a cough, and Felix’s voice — hoarse, confused, still half in his dream.
"Boss?"
"Tell we didn’t leak Graham’s files."
Silence. Then Felix sitting up fast, his breathing changing from sleep-rhythm to alert-rhythm in one exhale.
"We didn’t. I can prove it. Our logs show zero extraction from the Silas network. We observed only. We watched packets, mapped routes. We never pulled a single docunt. Never touched Graham’s folder."
Dayo believed him. Felix was stating facts, not defending himself.
"Then where did it co from?"
Felix typed — fast, his fingers waking up. More typing. Then a long breath.
"Soone else had the files. Or worse — soone had better files. And they’re wrapping the leak in routing tadata that points to Los Angeles. To our infrastructure. To you."
Dayo stood in his living room, staring at a painting Luna had bought in Silver Lake. He stared without seeing it.
"Soone is manufacturing my bluff. I told them I had comprehensive files. Now evidence appears, wrapped in digital fingerprints that make look like the source. Soone wants the four bosses to believe I’m far more dangerous than I am."
"Michael," Felix said. Not a question.
Dayo thought about Michael Stern. The man who had sat across from him in Century City, polite and sharp, carrying a photograph of Luna and Jennifer. The man who worked for Silas Vane. The man who had built the relay architecture their entire network ran on.
If Michael did this, there was a bigger problem. Michael wouldn’t move against his own employer — not unless sothing had gone wrong between them. Unless there was a crack in their partnership. Unless the servant was striking out on his own.
Dayo kept his options open. Maybe Michael was making a move. Maybe there was a fight between him and Silas that nobody knew about. Maybe the man who built the walls had decided to tear them down. If any of that was true, it changed everything.
"Can you trace the leak’s origin?" Dayo asked.
"I can try. But if Michael did this, he used his own architecture. He built Silas’s walls. He knows every back door because he installed them. The trail will be cold by design."
"Try anyway."
Dayo hung up. He stood in the living room, the morning light getting stronger, the house silent. He felt sothing in his chest he couldn’t na. Not fear. Fear would have been simple. This was the feeling of stepping onto a stage and realizing the script had been rewritten while your back was turned.
He had gone into this war with an empty gun. Now soone was loading it for him, firing it for him, handing him the credit. The four bosses would see Graham burn and believe Dayo had struck the match. They would mobilize. Escalate. Co for Luna, for Jennifer, for everything he had built. And the worst part — the part that made his hands tighten around the phone — was that he couldn’t put the gun down. The bluff had beco real. The lie had beco truth. And he was trapped inside it.
"Dayo."
He turned. Luna stood in the bedroom doorway, wearing one of his old shirts, her hair wild from sleep, her eyes completely awake. She was reading him. She always could.
"Soone just started a war in my na," Dayo said. "And I don’t know if I can stop it before it burns everything."
Luna walked to the couch and sat down. "Start from the beginning," Luna said.
Dayo sat across from her. He told her everything. The bluff. Felix’s network window. The observation-only protocol. And now — real evidence, real docunts, wrapped in tadata pointing to Los Angeles. To him.
"Michael," Luna said when he finished.
"I think so. He has the files, the skill, the architecture. If sothing went wrong between him and Silas, he has the motive too. He wants the bosses to believe I’m attacking them. While they’re focused on , he moves however he wants."
"What does he want?"
Dayo looked at Jennifer. Her eyes had closed, her breathing settled into sleep. He thought about the photograph Michael had shown him — Luna and Jennifer, captured without their knowledge, turned into leverage.
"I don’t know yet. But I need to find out."
He stood up and walked to the window. The Los Angeles morning was gold and soft. He thought about the burner phone in his drawer. The man who owed Uncle Tunde a bullet from Iran, 1987.
He had arranged a eting. Then pushed it back. He had told himself there was ti.
Now he knew there wasn’t.
"I have to go," Dayo said, turning to Luna.
"Where?"
"To see soone who can find things that can’t be found."
Luna looked at him for a long mont. Then: "Co back."
"I will."
"No." Her voice sharpened. Not angry. Certain. "Co back the sa person who leaves. Don’t let this — don’t let it change what you won’t do. The difference between you and them is a line. Don’t cross it because soone drew a map that puts you on the wrong side."
Dayo looked at her. The woman who had left him once because he wouldn’t let her in. The woman who ca back because he finally had. The only person who knew where all his doors were and never walked through one without knocking.
"I won’t," he said.
He kissed Jennifer’s forehead. She didn’t wake. He kissed Luna — longer this ti, his hand on her cheek. Then he walked out.
Max and Bella were in the car outside. They didn’t ask questions.
Dayo got in back and pulled out the burner phone. He dialed.
It rang once.
"You’re late," the voice said. Dry. Old. Gravel in it.
"I’m leaving now," Dayo said.
"Good. Co alone. Nothing electronic. Not even a watch."
The line went dead.
"The airport," he said to Max. "Van Nuys. Not LAX."
Max pulled into traffic.
Dayo sat back and watched the city roll past. He thought about Graham Whitfield, waking up to a life that was already over. About Silas Vane, reading the headline and maybe wondering if his own servant had turned on him. About Michael Stern, sitting sowhere, watching the fire he started burn in soone else’s na.
The bluff was real now. The war was real. And Dayo was done playing defense.
He looked at his hands. They were steady. He was surprised by that.
The car turned onto the highway, accelerating toward the valley, the plane, the man who could find ghosts. Dayo closed his eyes and let the morning sun warm his face through the window.
Sowhere behind him, a city was waking to a headline with his shadow behind it. Sowhere ahead, a man was waiting who could change everything. And sowhere in between, a servant nad Michael was watching the world burn, waiting for the smoke to clear so he could claim what was left.
Dayo opened his eyes.
"Drive faster," he said.
(A/N: Shaless author asking for Golden Ticket 🎟 it doubles during this period so if I get up to ten one extra Chapter )
User Comments
0 comments from readers