Like evidence at trial.
Which, in a way, it is.
She’s already seated. Pink cardigan. Soft curls. Sipping tea like we’re about to discuss vacation plans instead of felony murder.
The men filter in.
Noah first. Always punctual.
He takes the seat beside Juliet, fingers immediately finding hers beneath the table.
Sweet boy.
Softest heart in a house full of knives.
Orion drops into his chair like he’s been summoned for an intervention.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight.
Protective mode activated.
Possibly homicidal mode on standby.
Callum sprawls. One leg kicked over the armrest. Grinning like this is dinner theater.
“So,” he says. “Who are we killing?”
“Callum,” I sigh.
“What? I’m being efficient. Cutting to the good part.”
Juliet snorts into her tea.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
These are my people. Somehow.
I really should get my license revoked.
I open the folder.
Slide the first page across the table.
A photograph.
Oksana Ivanov.
Sharp features.
Sharper eyes.
“Oksana Ivanov,” I begin. “Age forty-six. Born in Moscow. Immigrated to the U.S. in 2009 on a student visa. Never left.”
Orion leans forward. “What’s her deal?”
“Money laundering, primarily. She runs a network of businesses. Legitimate fronts with very illegitimate back rooms.” I tap the next page. “Nail salons. Dry cleaners. A car wash on Fifth. All cash-heavy. Perfect for cleaning dirty money.”
“How dirty?” Noah asks quietly.
