“That’s not what I asked.”
Nolan’s laugh is harsh. “She’s got teeth.”
“Eight years of investigative journalism teaches you to spot evasion,” I snap. “I’m not some civilian you need to protect.I’ve documented cartels and trafficking rings. I’ve survived three assassination attempts.”
“Four,” Declan corrects. “The coffee shop in Istanbul. The sniper missed.”
My blood runs cold. “How—”
“Remy sent us a message, telling us that if you needed help, we would be there. We vetted you thoroughly the moment we knew who you were, Eva Montoni or, more accurately, Liv Consoli.” His green eyes pin me in place. “Your work in exposing the Ankara trafficking ring was impressive. But you got sloppy with the Syrian operation.”
“I got results.”
“You almost got killed,” Nolan interjects. “Twice.”
“And now Remy is paying for my mistakes.” The words taste bitter. “So stop testing me and tell me the plan.”
Greyson’s eyes meet mine again in the mirror. “First, tell us what’s in that bag.”
My hand tightened on the handle. “How—”
“Your tell,” Declan says. “You touch it when you’re nervous. Amateur mistake.”
“Everything. Bank records, shipping manifests, witness testimonies. Enough to destroy Ano Montoni’s empire and put him away for life.”
The silence that follows is heavy with assessment. “My father wants me to exchange everything I got on him, my entire investigation, for Remy’s life.”
I force my voice to remain steady as I outline the investigation, though my fingers won’t stop tracing the edge of my messenger bag. “Ano Montoni’s trafficking operation spans three continents. He uses shipping containers marked as agricultural exports to move people across borders.”
“And you have proof?” Nolan’s scarred face turns toward me.
“Manifests. Bank records. Heath gave me everything before—” My throat tightens. “Before the warehouse. He was terrified, but he had evidence of direct wire transfers from shell companies to Montoni’s personal accounts.”
Greyson’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “The warehouse where Remy staged your death.”
“Yes.” The word tastes bitter. “He thought he could protect me by making my father believe I was gone. But Marcus—” Rage and grief tangle in my chest. “Marcus was reporting everything back to my father. Fifteen years of loyalty to Remy, and he sold him out.”
“When did you know?” Declan’s voice carries an edge.
“Less than an hour ago. My father called.” The memory of Remy’s muffled screams makes my hands shake. “He put Remy on the phone. They were—” I swallow hard. “They were hurting him. Making sure I could hear it.”
“What are his exact terms?” Greyson’s cultured tone has turned to ice.
“I have until dawn to surrender myself and all evidence at the estate. A ‘fair trade’ for Remy’s life.” I meet Declan’s piercing stare in the darkness. “But we both know there’s nothing fair about it.”
“No witnesses.” Nolan’s rough voice fills the silence. “No loose ends.”
“My father wants this buried.” My laugh holds no humor. “Along with his daughter and the man who tried to save her.”
Declan shifts, his military bearing more pronounced. “If you enter that estate, even with handing over the proof, you won’t get out alive.”
I don’t answer. The truth sits heavy between us.
“You knew that when you called.” His words aren’t a question.
“Yes.” I grip the messenger bag tighter. “The trade is a sham. My father wants my story buried and me dead. If I go therealone, Remy dies with me.” I force myself to meet each of their gazes. “But if I can buy time, create enough of a distraction for you three to get past the guards and reach him…”
“That’s suicide,” Greyson states flatly.
