“This is what she’s doing,” I whisper.
“She’s turning the town against itself.”
Saint turns his head and looks at me.
Really looks.
And something in his expression hardens.
“No,” he says quietly.
“She’s trying.”
Then he looks back at the clinic hallway.
At the patients waiting for help.
At the doctor standing there with defeat in his eyes.
“And she just made it personal.”
67
Marco
The clinic is the mistake.
Not because it’s cruel.
Because it’s traceable.
I’ve turned the bank’s back office into a war room.
Spreadsheets cover one wall.
Transaction trees cover another.
Shell companies and timeline maps stretch across a third.
Every thread leads back to the same pattern.
Northstar.
Silver Pine.
Greyfield.
And the quiet consultancy layer coordinating everything behind the scenes.
I dial the secure number.
The man answers after two rings.
“This better be good, Rossi.”
“It is,” I reply.
I walk him through it.
