But Dr. Jane Schuyler made a full recovery.
My informant at the Bureau confirmed she’s been relocated under the Witness Protection Program with new identity, new life, somewhere far from New York where Dominic Calabrese’s reach can’t touch her.
I feel for the woman, I really do.
One moment she’s a forensic accountant with a normal life, and the next she’s disappeared forever because she had the misfortune of discovering financial crimes that put her in the crosshairs of a family war.
At least she’s alive. That’s more than the Calabreses intended.
I shift in my desk chair, wincing as the movement pulls at the healing tissue around my ribs, and glance across my office at Bianca.
She’s hunched over a stack of surveillance photos, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face as she studies each image with the intensity of a scholar examining ancient manuscripts.
Her fingers trace patterns across the glossy surfaces.
For ten days, she’s thrown herself into planning the destruction of an entire crime family with the single-minded focus of someone possessed.
She barely sleeps, picks at her food, and speaks only when necessary.
Every waking moment has been consumed by reconnaissance reports, financial analyses, and strategic assessments.
And I’m starting to worry that the planning process is breaking her apart.
“The warehouse district gives us the best approach to their primary money laundering operation,” she mutters, not looking up from the photos spread across the mahogany surface.
Her voice carries the hoarse quality of someone who’s been talking to herself for hours. “But the residential area might be more psychologically effective. Hitting them where they sleep sends a different message than hitting them where they work.”
Her brow furrows as she chews on her lower lip—a nervous habit she’s developed over the past few days.
The skin there is raw and slightly swollen from constant worry.
Dark circles ring her eyes, and her cheekbones appear more pronounced than usual, giving her face a gaunt, almost haunted quality.
“Unless we coordinate simultaneous strikes,” she continues, her tone shifting abruptly. “Multiple targets, overwhelming force, no opportunity for regrouping or retaliation. Complete annihilation in a single night.”
She pauses mid-sentence, her head tilting slightly to the right as if she’s listening to something I can’t hear.
Her lips press together in a thin line before she scowls.
A moment later, her expression becomes blank again, like she’s resolved some internal argument.
This is the fifth time in the last hour I’ve witnessed this pattern.
The sudden shifts in strategy, the internal debates that play out across her features, the way she responds to conversations that aren’t happening aloud.
It’s been getting worse.
And to be honest, it’s kind of scaring me.
“What about the children?” I ask, testing something. “Dominic has two daughters. Seven and five years old.”
Bianca’s head snaps up, her eyes blazing with cold fury that makes my breath catch. For a moment, she looks exactly like Giuseppe.
“The children are off-limits,” she declares with absolute finality, but then her expression flickers, uncertainty creeping in around the edges. “Unless…no. No, that’s not…” She shakes her headsharply, as if dismissing an unwelcome thought. “We’re not monsters.”
Her voice wavers on the last word, carrying a note of uncertainty that suggests she’s not entirely convinced of her own declaration.
“But their school schedules could be useful for timing,” she continues, her tone becoming businesslike again. “If we know when Dominic will be distracted by parent-teacher conferences or soccer games, we can predict his movements more accurately.”
