I end the call, cutting off whatever Richard was about to say. Hannah lunges for the phone, but I hold it out of her reach.
"I said one minute,” I said calmly.
"He wasn't finished!"
“Yes, he is.”
Her lip quivers. "You're going to kill him anyway, aren't you? Just like you killed that man downstairs."
"That depends on whether he returns what he stole from us."
"He didn't steal anything!" The words explode out of her, loud enough that I glance toward the stairs, worried about who might overhear.
"I went through your so-called evidence, Dante. All of it. And it's bullshit."
I go very still. "What did you say?"
"The timeline doesn't match. The signatures are wrong. The amounts are too convenient, too round." She's pacing now, her analytical mind working through the details. "I have a business degree. I know how to read financial documents. And these documents are fake."
The conviction in her voice gives me pause. I've been operating on the assumption that Bogdan's evidence is solid, but Hannah's pointing out discrepancies I hadn't considered.
"Show me," I say.
"What?"
"Show me what you found. The inconsistencies."
We go to my office, where the files are still on my desk. Hannah moves through them with the efficiency of someone who knows what she's looking for, pointing out details I'd overlooked.
"And that's not the only discrepancy. The account numbers don't match his usual patterns. The transfer amounts are all in round numbers—nobody embezzles in exact millions, Dante. Real theft is messier, more random."
She's right. The evidence is too clean, too perfect. Too much like what someone would create if they wanted to frame an innocent man.
It’s the same thought I’ve had since all of this began.
"I want to see the actual transaction records," she continues. "Not summaries or reports. The raw data from the banks."
"Hannah—"
"You owe me that much. If you're going to kill my father based on this evidence, at least make sure it's real evidence."
The word 'kill' hangs between us like a blade. She knows what I am now and what I'm capable of. There's no going back to the careful fiction we've been maintaining.
"I don't have access to?—"
"Bullshit." She slams her hand on the desk. "You're telling me the head of the Chicago Bratva can't get bank records? You can't verify your own evidence?"
The challenge in her voice stings more than it should. She's questioning not just my methods, but my competence. My judgment.
"Fine," I say. "I'll get the records. But if they confirm what I already know?—"
"Then I'll accept it. But if they don't..." She meets my eyes, her expression fierce with protective fury. "If they prove what I already know—that my father is innocent—then you're going to let us both go."
"Hannah—"
"No." She stands up, moving toward the door. "I'm done with your lies and your manufactured evidence and your fucking power games. My father is innocent, and you know it. You're just too proud to admit you've been played."
"Played by whom?"
