I don’t know him. Never seen him before. But something about the way he’s positioned in the photo—slightly apart from the others, watching instead of participating—makes me think he’s important.
I set his picture aside and keep digging.
By the time Leone returns, it’s past ten and I’ve covered the entire bed with paper. He stops in the doorway, surveying the chaos.
“Redecorating?”
“Working.” I don’t look up. “This guy. Renzo. Who is he?”
Leone crosses to the bed, picks up the photo. His expression doesn’t change, but his grip tightens on the edges. “Where did you get this?”
“It was in the stack you gave me this morning.”
He stares at the photo, then sets it down carefully. “Renzo Marchetti. Low-level soldier. Handles transportation logistics.”
“He’s in almost every photo from the past six months. Different locations, different crews, but always there.” I point to the documents spread across the bed. “And look—the shipments he’s associated with? They’re the ones with the gaps.”
Leone goes still. Not the casual stillness of a man thinking, but the coiled stillness of a predator spotting prey.
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve cross-referenced everything twice. He’s the common thread.”
Leone picks up the photo again, studying Renzo’s face like he’s memorizing it for a lineup. “He’s been with us for two years. Aurelio vetted him personally.”
“Then either your vetting process sucks, or someone got to him after.”
His eyes flash. “Watch your mouth.”
“I’m trying to help. You want to shoot the messenger, go ahead, but it won’t change what I found.”
We stare at each other across the bed, documents scattered between us like a battlefield. I watch his hands, waiting for them to curl into fists. They don’t.
“If you’re right,” he says slowly, “this changes everything.”
“I know.”
“If you’re wrong, I’ll have accused a loyal soldier based on the word of a prisoner.”
“I know that too.” I shrug. “Your call. But I’m not wrong.”
He looks at me… really looks, not the measuring stare or the blank mask, but something deeper. Something that makes my stomach flip in a way I don’t want to examine.
“Why?” he asks. “Why help us? You could’ve kept this to yourself. Used it as leverage.”
I consider lying. It would be easier, cleaner. But I don’t know… something about the way he’s looking at me makes honesty feel necessary.
“Because I’m tired of being useless,” I say. “Because Viktor died trying to save me, and the least I can do is make that mean something. And because—” I stop, swallow, force myself to finish. “Because you haven’t hurt me. You could have. You had every reason to. But you didn’t.”
Leone’s expression shifts, a crack, a fracture, but I see it. Something human breaking through the mask.
“That’s not a reason to trust me,” he says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “But it’s a reason to try.”
He holds my gaze. Then he gathers the documents, all of them, including Renzo’s photo, and turns toward the door.
“I’ll look into it,” he says. “Get some sleep.”
