"Named with the subtlety of a man who doesn't care if you know," Rory says. "The holding company is the apex. Everything flows to it. But look here."
He highlights a secondary flow. A smaller stream of funds breaking off from the main channel at the Cyprus layer. It doesn't go to Liechtenstein. It goes to a domestic account.
"A Political Action Committee," I say. "Citizens for Civic Progress."
"Sounds patriotic," Killian mutters.
I pull up the registration data. The committee's treasurer is a law firm. The managing partner is a name I recognize. Not from intelligence files, but from the society pages. From the fundraising dinners my father attends.
"Councilman Hargrove," I say.
Killian frowns. "Who?"
"Daniel Hargrove. City Council, District Seven. He chairs the Zoning and Land Use committee."
The implications click into place like tumblers in a lock.
"He controls the permits," I say. "Every building permit, every variance, every commercial rezoning application in the industrial and waterfront districts. If the Russians are buying property through shell companies, they need Hargrove to approve the zoning changes that make those properties valuable."
"He's not just taking their money," Killian realizes. "He's enabling the invasion."
"How much?" I ask.
Rory scrolls. "Just under two million dollars in the last eighteen months. Structured contributions to stay below reporting thresholds. Nine thousand here. Twelve thousand there."
"Textbook structuring," I say.
I lean back. "Hargrove is up for reelection. The fundraising cycle is active. He’ll be attending every major donor event in the city for the next three months."
"Including the Belmont Foundation Gala," Rory says.
I look at him. "This Saturday."
"The biggest fundraiser of the season," I confirm. "Every council member, every major donor, every power broker in the city will be in that room. Hargrove will be there."
"And if the transaction data is accurate," Rory adds, "someone from the Volkov network will be there too. That's how these relationships are maintained. Not through wire transfers. Through handshakes at open bars."
I look at Killian. He is leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks dangerous. Uncivilized.
"We're going," I say.
Killian stares at me. "To a gala."
"To the gala where our political target will be standing in a room full of witnesses, shaking hands with the people who are bankrolling the war against our families."
Killian’s expression cycles through several stages of resistance. His jaw tightens.
"I don't do galas," he says.
"You do now."
"Alessandro. Look at me." He gestures to his bruised torso, his scarred hands. "I've spent my entire adult life being the man people are afraid to invite to parties. I am not a social asset. I am the reason other guests request additional security."
"Which is precisely why you're coming." I stand up. "We are publicly married. The entire city knows it. Our absence for the past thirty-six hours has generated speculation. Everyone is asking where the Falcone-Kavanagh alliance disappeared to."
"So we show them?"
"We walk into the Belmont Gala as a united front. Not as reluctant allies, but as a power couple. We demonstrate that the assassination attempts haven't fractured the truce—they've strengthened it."
