The room goes quiet. Every man at the table knows what that means. Enzo is a wiry opportunist who's been trying to muscle into our territory for months. If he has ledger pages, he got themfrom the banker or the black market. And if the Feds have them now, we're looking at evidence we can't control.
"What's on the pages?" Don Salvatore asks.
"We don't know," I say. "The banker sold them before he died. Probably trying to pay off debts or buy himself protection. But we have no way of knowing what he gave them."
And this part is my fault. I threatened him when I couldn’t control his movements, and he used the smarts he developed over years of working for me to get a few steps ahead when I wasn't looking. That's on me.
"Guess."
I meet his gaze. "Who knows… Shell accounts. Stash house addresses. Employee names. Anything he thought would keep him alive."
Don Salvatore leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers in front of himself. He's silent for a long moment, and the tension in the room grows heavier with each passing second. Finally, he speaks.
"This pharmaceutical company was supposed to give us legitimacy. It was supposed to provide cover for our operations, not expose them. Taking it over cost us resources, time, and political capital. And now you're telling me it's compromised."
"It's not compromised," I say. "It's under scrutiny—there's a huge difference." I'm not ready to admit defeat right now, and it's not because I'm surrounded by men who would laugh in my face if my uncle came down on me.
"Explain the difference," he says sternly, and I sit a little straighter.
"Right now, they're just looking. And as long as we stay ahead of them, they won't find anything. As long as they find nothing, we're not compromised and we can still recover. You have to understand that Lombardi planned all of?—"
"And how do you plan to stay ahead of them?" he asks, cutting me off. Not a man for excuses, he wants real, practical responses, and I don't have a whole lot to give him at this point.
I glance toward the door. Beyond it, down the hallway and around the corner, Riley's sitting in my office with Feodor standing guard. She's doing everything I've asked her to do and she's been at it for days. And she's our solution—she has to be. Everything hinges on having those ledgers decoded and rebuilt so we'll pass scrutiny, and our Christmas shipments can go through.
"I have someone working on it," I say.
"Someone," Sal repeats as he raises an eyebrow at me while narrowing his eyes.
"She's good."
"She?" His telling glance around the room reveals his misogyny. Never one for promoting women, he'd rather every person on his team be male, but I know Riley is the right person. Mostly because she's already in neck-deep and doing well.
"A bank teller. She understands financial systems. She's been working through the banker's records for almost two weeks now, and she's made more progress than anyone else could have."
Patterson shifts in his seat. "You're trusting our entire operation to a bank teller?"
"I'm trusting it to someone who doesn't have a choice," I say. "She's motivated. She's capable. And she's already saved us twice."
Don Salvatore watches me for a long moment. Then he nods slowly. "How much time do you need?"
"Two weeks. Maybe less. The dead man's switch triggers on Christmas Day. If we can rebuild the records and stop the countdown before then, we'll be clear."
"And if you can't?"
I press my lips into a line while everyone else around the table remains silent because they know what that means. Our asses will get handed to us along with arrest warrants.
"You have until Christmas," Sal says. "After that, I'm pulling the plug on this entire operation. The pharmaceutical company gets liquidated. The accounts get closed. And we move on."
"Understood," I grunt, but I’m not about to give up yet.
He stands, and the rest of the board follows. They file out of the conference room one by one, but every fucking one of them manages to give me a nasty look as they pass my seat. Patterson lingers by the door for a moment, looking at me as if he wants to say something, but then he shakes his head and leaves.
Uncle Sal is the last to go. He stops beside my chair and places a hand on my shoulder.
"I know you're doing everything you can," he says quietly. "But this family doesn't survive on effort. It survives on results. Get me results, Rafe."
"I will."
