Page 54 of The Cost of Silence

“You think Domenico knows how deep he’s in?”

“He’s not stupid.” My jaw tightens. “He knows.”

Rossi nods once. “Then he made his choice.”

Yeah.

And I made mine.

Because somewhere between Isabella’s first scream and her asking me to fuck her without strings, I went from seeing her as a problem to seeing her as a line I won’t let anyone cross.

Including the men who share my blood.

The ISM buildingis all glass and steel and old power, set back from the street behind polished stone planters and discretesecurity. I park in the private underground bay and let Rossi take the lead through the secure entrance, biometric scanners humming quietly as they accept us.

Upstairs, Adi is already in the conference room when we step in, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened but still precise. A laptop is open in front of him, several files spread in neat lines.

He looks up, eyes sharp. “You’re late,” he says.

“You’re annoying,” I reply, closing the door behind me.

Matteo lounges at the far end of the table, black shirt open at the throat, ankle kicked over his knee, scrolling on his phone. He glances up, grin flashing. “Look who returned from playing house,” he drawls. “How’s our little journalist guest? Still breathing? Still gorgeous?”

“Watch it,” I say mildly.

The warning lands anyway.

Matteo’s grin tilts. “Relax, Nic. I’m just appreciating the scenery from afar. You, on the other hand…” He whistles under his breath. “You look like a man who didn’t sleep.”

I think of her soft weight in my arms last night, the heat of her pressed against my side, the way every muscle in my body locked when she whispered, I feel safe when you’re close.

“I slept enough,” I say.

Adi eyes me over the rim of his glasses. “What happened?”

“Nothing that concerns this meeting,” I deflect, dropping into the chair opposite him. “Talk.”

He lets it go for now, and clicks a few keys. The screen shifts to a chart of connections, companies, shell corporations, arrows tying them together in a web. “This,” he says, “is the last five years of Orlov’s legitimate holdings. Shipping, real estate, a couple of nightclubs, three casinos in Eastern Europe. Nothing surprising.”

He hits another key. “And this is what happens when you compare those holdings to the accounts our father froze him out of when he converted the docks.”

The chart expands, new lines spidering outward—charities, LLCs, consulting firms that don’t consult a single thing.

Matteo straightens. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Adi taps an innocuous-looking name halfway down the screen. “This shell, Nova Horizon Group, has been dormant for six years. No movement. No deposits. Then, seven months ago, there’s been a sudden influx of capital from three different sources. Two we can tie back to Orlov’s side businesses. The third is an anonymous donor funneled through an old contact at the docks. Guess who that contact used to report to.”

My teeth grind. “Domenico.”

Adi nods. “We don’t have him on paper yet, but the pattern is there. Money leaves an account owned by one of his old companies, filters through three intermediaries, then lands here. From there, it pays out to a handful of entities, including one that matches the club Rossi tracked the call to.”

“So, Orlov’s bankrolling his comeback with help from the uncle,” Matteo says. “How cute. Getting the band back together.”

Rossi folds his arms. “He’s keeping it just clean enough to argue plausible deniability if anyone goes digging. But he miscalculated one thing.”

“What’s that?” Matteo asks.

“Isabella,” Rossi says simply. “Her article forced movement. You don’t start shoving pawns around the board until you’re ready to risk some pieces. Orlov and Domenico were ready. They just didn’t expect you to move this fast.”