Priscilla leaned back slowly, setting her mug down with a clink. Her breathing had gone shallow, rage simmering just below the surface.
"You must be mad!" she hissed, her manicured nails tightening into her lap. "Five… five hundred? That makes it a million in total." She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. "Do you know what the last five hundred cost me?"
Her perfectly drawn lip curled in contempt. "Then you come back with a botched job and blame me for it?"
Rashford leaned back casually, then reached into the inside of his coat pocket, pulling out a flash drive with theatrical flair. He held it between two fingers.
"Well," he said, almost lazily, "you give me the five hundred, or I send this to your husband."
The blood drained from Priscilla's face. Rashford saw it—savoured it.
"The journalist had this on her," he added. "We pulled the video surveillance from the night of the kidnapping. Every damn second of it. You want to risk that?"
