All Chapters of Cracking His Code: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

OliverWalking through the front door of the villa feels like stepping off a moving train.My legs are completely hollow. The adrenaline from the van is gone, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that settles right behind my eyes. I just stole four hundred million euros. I just watched a man’s heart stop on a digital graph. My hands are still shaking inside the pockets of my jacket.The rest of the team handles the comedown completely differently.Dom dumps her tactical rig on the white sectional, groaning as she stretches her arms over her head.Butcher walks straight past the living room and into the kitchen. I hear the heavy squeak of the refrigerator door, followed by the hiss of two beer cans cracking open. Max grins at the sound and goes to join him. Tariq is already sitting on a barstool, scrolling through his phone with the bored expression of a guy who just got off a mildly annoying shift at a restaurant.Oba and the others aren’t back from the marina yet. We’ll be leaving via

KirThe Mediterranean is miserable at three in the morning.The wind rips straight through my t-shirt, carrying freezing sea spray that coats everything in a layer of salt. Oliver’s tried three times to give my jacket back to me, but I keep refusing. Yes, it’s cold, but I’ve been much colder back in Russia.And knowing he’s warm is more important to me than my own comfort.When did that happen? When did he crawl this far under my skin? The urge to take care of him comes to me as naturally as breathing.I keep my stance wide to absorb the shock.Glancing over at Oliver, I see that he’s still sitting at that awkward angle, keeping his weight shifted entirely onto his right thigh to protect the bruised skin on his ass.I did that.He’s drowning in my jacket, but that’s a good thing. It covers more of him. I made sure not to make it a gentle gesture when I dropped the leather over him and stepped into the narrow space between his seat and the gunwale. My actions were nonchalant. No dif

DomI hate mornings. I especially hate mornings where I have to use double-sided tape to secure my tits into a dress priced like it was blessed by the fashion gods and taxed by demons, while being made from less fabric than it takes to cover a kitchen window.It’s barely five-thirty. The sun isn’t even up over the Mediterranean yet, and the air coming through the open bathroom window is freezing. I shiver, adjust the plunging neckline of the blood-red sundress, and swipe on a layer of gloss.I look like a high-end escort on a very expensive vacation. Perfect.I grab my heels and walk barefoot out of the room, padding quietly down the hallway.The house is already buzzing. These people do not know how to sleep.I walk into the kitchen. It smells like burnt toast and whatever the hell Saint is frying in a cast-iron skillet."Move," I tell Jozef, shoving his hip out of the way to get to the espresso machine.Jozef just grunts. He’s leaning out the open window, smoking a cigarette and

OliverIt’s just past six in the morning.The sun is a thin line over the Mediterranean, bleeding through the gap in my bedroom curtains. I stare at the ceiling for a minute. My legs are heavy. My lower back aches in a way that makes me want to stay under the covers for another week.We only stayed at the hotel in Salerno for two hours. An hour to fuck. An hour to nap. Then Kir drove us back with a box full of take-aways from some fancy restaurant to cover our tracks, and nobody asked any questions.The restlessness that chewed on my nerves all day yesterday is gone. It left behind a lovely blank slate.I don't hate it.I drag myself out of bed, pull on a clean t-shirt, and walk out into the hallway.Everyone else is already up.Ray’s sitting at the dining table. He has three laptops open, a tangle of black cables snaking across the floor, and a depressing pyramid of empty energy drink cans stacked near his elbow. He looks like a corpse that just discovered Wi-Fi."We have a prob

OliverThe Grande Corniche is not a road designed for high-speed pursuits. It’s a narrow, winding ribbon of asphalt cut directly into the side of a limestone mountain. On the right, the rock wall goes straight up. On the left, the cliff drops hundreds of feet into the Mediterranean. There are no shoulders. The guardrails are mostly decorative.I’m sitting in the back seat of a rented Peugeot. My laptop is open on my knees. The screen brightness is turned all the way up to fight the harsh morning glare coming through the tinted windows.Oba is driving. He’s doing seventy miles an hour around blind curves, and he looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Both hands are loosely draped over the steering wheel. His jaw is relaxed.Ray sits in the passenger seat, staring at a reinforced tablet. He’s chewing on a plastic coffee stirrer. The plastic clicks against his teeth every four seconds. It feels like the loudest sound I’ve ever been forced to listen to.The radio earpiece in my left e