Rory’s fingersmove across the keyboard with the fluid precision of a pianist.
He is hunched over the laptop on the drafting table, the screen illuminating his face in blue light. Hargrove’s phone is connected via a cable Rory soldered himself from components I don't recognize. The encryption is dissolving under his attention the way ice dissolves under heat—visibly, inevitably.
"The PIN was his daughter's birthday," Rory mutters. "Politicians. Honestly. They make it too easy."
Alessandro stands behind him, leaning over the chair. His tie is gone. His shirt is open at the collar, revealing the bite mark on his neck. It’s dark in the studio light—a bruise with teeth marks, unmistakable. Every time my eyes track to it, something shifts in my chest. A low, territorial growl.
"He has a dedicated messaging app," Rory says. "Custom build. Encrypted. Self-destructing messages." His typing accelerates. "But the messages don't self-destruct if you intercept them atthe device level before the protocol triggers. And our friend the councilman didn't close the app before he dropped his phone."
The messages populate the screen. A thread. One contact. No name—just a string of numbers.
Alessandro reads faster than I do. His eyes scan the data. I watch his face. The micro-expressions of a man processing intelligence at speed. His jaw tightens on the fourth message. His breathing changes on the seventh.
"The contact is Volkov," he says. "The phrasing. The syntax. It matches the communication patterns in the financial records. Same cadence. Same abbreviation system."
"What's the content?" I ask.
"Operational directives. Hargrove has been providing zoning approvals for Russian-linked properties. In exchange, Volkov funds his reelection and provides personal security." Alessandro straightens. "The Russians own him. Completely. He's not a collaborator; he's an asset."
Rory scrolls further. "There's a recent thread. Last forty-eight hours." He reads it aloud. "'Package compromised. Initiate cleanup. Priority target: Pier 11 warehouse. Timeline: tonight.'"
Alessandro freezes. The motion is sharp—a full-body realignment.
"Pier 11," he says.
"You know it?"
"It's a Falcone property. Cold storage. Officially, it stores frozen seafood." He pauses. He looks at me. "Unofficially, it’s the archive."
"Archive?"
"Financial documentation going back thirty years. Every transaction, every agreement, every piece of evidence that documents the Falcone family's operational history. The paper trail that connects us to the legitimate world."
"They're going to burn it," I realize.
"They're going to destroy thirty years of leverage. If those records go, the financial trail Rory uncovered becomes circumstantial. The hard documentation—the originals, the signatures—goes with it."
"Then we let the fire department handle it. Call it in."
"And explain how we know about a Russian cleanup operation targeting a warehouse that officially stores frozen fish?" His eyes meet mine. The dark irises carry the weight of a decision already made. "I need to secure those records. If I lose that archive, I lose leverage against Hargrove, against Volkov, against every compromised official in the network."
"Alessandro."
"I know."
"It's a trap."
"I know what it is."
He knows. He knows it’s a bait car waiting to explode. He knows the message was left on a phone that was conveniently dropped. But he also knows that the records are the foundation of his family’s power.
I should argue. I should pin him to the wall and explain that paper isn't worth bleeding for.
But I look at the mark on his neck. I think about his hand on my wrist in the safehouse. I think about the wordhome, spoken in the back of a car.
"Rory stays here," I say. "Comms only. You drive, I ride. We're in and out in under fifteen minutes. If it goes wrong, we go loud and we go fast."
Alessandro nods. A small, precise movement.
