Seven laughed. The sound was loose. Easy.
And Enzo couldn’t think of a better way to start the day.
Enzo had barely had his first sip of coffee when his brothers let themselves in without knocking. Typical.
They crossed the kitchen like they owned the place, and Ansel—always the dramatic one—tossed a stack of papers ontothe island in front of him. Pages fanned out across the counter, rustling against his plate. Enzo frowned at the sheer volume, fork suspended halfway to his mouth.
“What is this?” he asked, voice flat, irritated.
“The smoking gun,” Elio declared, hopping his ass onto the island and sitting cross-legged like it was his personal throne. At least he’d had the decency to take his shoes off.
Enzo watched in disbelief as Elio snagged one of his pancakes and started tearing it into little rabbit-sized bites. Beside him, Seven eyed one of the Conti twins with a mix of anxiety and suspicion, clearly wondering if this circus was normal.
“Well?” Enzo snapped when the silence stretched too long. “Are you going to explain, or do we need to guess?”
Ansel, cheeks bulging with an entire waffle like some overgrown chipmunk, just jerked his chin toward Elio, eyes wide as if to say,Your turn, genius.
Elio rolled his eyes so hard Enzo thought they might stick. “Okay, so, at first glance, the thumb drive was a bust. Like, they framed your mom and were totally content to let her rot for the shady shit they’re actually doing.”
“Like?” Enzo pressed.
Ansel swallowed, reaching for bacon like he was at brunch instead of staging a courtroom defense. “Looked like your standard embezzlement scheme. Fake vendors, shell corps, offshore accounts. Blah blah blah. Any cybercrimes department worth their badge would stop there and call it solved.”
“But you didn’t?” Seven asked, leaning in, voice tight.
“Hell no,” Elio said with a smirk. “Our mom would murder us if we left your mom to rot in a prison cell like your pops.”
Seven froze.
When Enzo shot him a warning look, Elio shrugged. “What? Did he not know? The whole city knows now thanks to the tabloids.”
“He’s right,” Ansel mumbled around another bite. “They dropped a story on Neith just last night. Compared her to that German spy—what’s her name? Hari something? They’re making her sound like some kind of femme fatale who’s only with Uncle Rocco to get dirt for your dad.”
“Mata Hari?” Enzo supplied, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Mata who?” Seven asked, blinking. Then his face crumpled. “Wait…they think my mom is spying for my dad? Do they think he convinced her to embezzle from a charity, too?”
“They implied it, but didn’t say it outright. Lots ofallegedlysprinkled in for flavor,” Elio said.
“Can you explain,” Seven pressed tightly, “how any of this helps my mom?”
Elio spread his hands. “It totally doesn’t. But here’s the thing. Whoever decided to dump these files onto the thumb drive to frame Neith either didn’t know what they were doing or panicked at the last second. Because nobody—nobody—is dumb enough to dump their entire operation onto a single thumb drive.”
Enzo set his fork down, appetite gone. “What did you find? Speak plainly.”
“Like I said, at first glance, it was junk. Fake vendors, fake entries, all roads leading back to Neith. We ran the usual programs any cybercrimes unit would run. Same conclusion: guilty as sin. Until…” He trailed off.
Enzo glared. “Are you pausing for dramatic effect? This isn’t the Oscars. Just say it.”
Ansel rolled his eyes. “God, you’re impatient. I was bored while Elio was chasing vendor transactions line by line, so I ran adeep scan. Didn’t expect much, but then I noticed something by accident.” He jabbed a finger at the papers.
Enzo flipped one over and froze. It wasn’t a budget sheet at all. It was a woman’s picture.
“What about it?”
“These image files were massive. Way bigger than they should’ve been. That usually means someone’s hiding data inside them. It’s called steganography.”
Seven blinked. “Oh, shit. Owen told me about this.”
