The place smells like bleach and scorched plastic.
Professionals.
But not mine.
I move through the space slowly, cataloging what they tried to erase.
The angles of the cleared desks.
The burn pattern in the metal trash drum.
The precision of the exit.
These men were trained.
But not Rossi-trained.
Rossi men don’t miss exits.
They don’t leave blood.
And they never freelance inside someone else’s operation.
These were contractors.
Good ones.
And someone paid them very well to disappear.
I crouch near a floor drain.
A dark smear catches the light.
The cleaners missed it.
Blood.
I touch it with the tip of my finger.
“One of you is dead,” I murmur.
The other escaped.
And both of you are going to lead me exactly where I want to go.
To my mother.
I pull out my phone.
“Find every shell company she’s used in the last six months.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Start with California.”
A pause.
“You think she routed the contract through the States?”
