“Ano’s paranoid,” Roberto continues, his voice dropping even lower. “He’s calling in every favor, activating every contact. The whole empire’s mobilizing.”
My fingers grip the edge of the folding table, knuckles white. “How bad?”
Roberto’s eyes meet mine, and the grimness there makes my stomach drop. “He reached out to Remy Harding.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.Remy.My instinct had been right to flee.
“Twenty million,” Roberto says softly. “That’s what Ano’s offering him to handle you. Permanently.”
Ice spreads through my veins as the full weight of those words settles in. I think of Remy’s careful control, his calculated moves, the way he watched me. Was each touch, each kiss, just part of his strategy to keep me close until he decided how to collect?
“The cleaners are methodical,” Roberto continues, outlining the systematic elimination of anyone who might corroborate my investigation. “Three dock workers who handled suspicious containers—gone. A customs officer who asked too many questions—disappeared. They’re burning everything to the ground, Eve.”
I force myself to breathe, to think past the suffocating reality closing in around me. My own father has put a price on my head. And the man I’ve trusted with my safety might be contemplating whether to collect it.
The photographs slide across the sticky table, partially hidden behind towers of soy sauce boxes. My chest tightens as Roberto whispers their names.
“Wilber Mercado and Terrell Heath.”
I study the first photo. Mercado stares back with glacial eyes, his silver hair immaculate against an expensive charcoal suit. Everything about him screams old money and calculated precision. The second photo shows Heath—younger, hungrier,with the sharp features of someone who climbed fast through the corporate ranks. His Harvard MBA likely opened the right doors at Montoni Shipping.
“Both had full access,” Roberto continues, his voice barely carrying over the rhythmic chopping from the kitchen. “Internal documents, sensitive materials—everything. And both vanished in the last week. And one of them is suspected to have taken documents before they disappeared.”
My hands feel clammy as I trace the edge of Mercado’s photo. “How?”
“Mercado’s car was found at O’Hare. He never made his flight to Geneva.” Roberto leans closer, the fluorescent light casting harsh shadows across his face. “Heath is worse. Walked out of a routine meeting and simply… disappeared. His penthouse is untouched. Like he just evaporated.”
Steam seeps under the storeroom door, carrying the sharp scent of ginger and garlic. The small space feels increasingly claustrophobic as Roberto’s words sink in.
“One of them knows everything and could provide the testimony we need,” he whispers.
My hand trembles slightly as I slide the photos back. Two men who could corroborate everything, both gone within days of each other. This isn’t a coincidence. This is clean-up.
“How long?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“Seventy-two hours. Maybe less.” Roberto’s expression is grim. “After that, Ano’s will unleash his hounds and, and I don’t know…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.
The kitchen’s steam makes it hard to breathe as I process the reality. Our key witnesses might already be dead, and with them, any chance of proving my father’s crimes.
The kitchen clamor provides the perfect cover for our hushed conversation. Pots clang against metal surfaces, orders areshouted in rapid-fire Cantonese, and the sizzle of woks creates a wall of sound that swallows our whispers.
“We should publish now,” Roberto urges, his voice barely carrying over the kitchen noise. “Get it out there, create public pressure. If Mercado or Heath are still alive, seeing the story break might draw them out.”
The evidence before us is damning, but without either executive’s testimony or their documented proof, the originals, it won’t be enough. I’ve spent years watching my father’s legal team destroy stronger cases.
“If we move too soon, we’ll lose everything,” I whisper, the words almost lost beneath a particularly loud crash from the kitchen. “And if they’re still alive, going public now would sign their death warrants.”
The faces flash through my mind—girls I interviewed in safe houses, women who trusted me with their stories of being trafficked, families still searching for missing daughters. Their testimonies, their tears, their desperate hope that someone would finally expose the truth. I can’t let them down, can’t waste this chance, no matter how terrified I am.
My hands shake slightly as I gather the documents, but my voice stays steady. “We need to find at least one of these men before Ano’s cleaners do, or the entire case collapses.”
Roberto nods grimly. We both know our window of opportunity is closing fast.
“We need more time,” I insist, gripping the edge of the folding table. “These potential witnesses won’t talk if we spook them. They’ll vanish deeper.”
Roberto shakes his head. “There is no more time, Eve. And now with Remy—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off. The mention of Remy sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “We need to think this through. If we rush—”
