"We'll figure out why." Quentin's voice was firm. "First, we need to prove she did it. What do we have?"
Forrest pulled up a timeline on his screen. "Big Sal was killed three months ago. Tuesday night, approximately 10:45 p.m. Shot three times—chest, chest, head. Professional hit."
"Execution style," I whispered.
"Yeah." Forrest continued. "Ballistics showed the gun was a 9mm Beretta. Never recovered. No shell casings at the scene—the shooter collected them."
"Professional," Stone confirmed. "Someone with training."
"Silvio's weapon of choice is a 9mm," I said quietly. "But his signature method is plastic bags, not guns. Guns are too loud, too obvious for him."
"Could he have changed his MO for this?" Serenity asked.
"Maybe. But it doesn't feel right." I tried to think like my cousin, like the killer I knew he was. "Silvio's methodical. Careful. If he'd done this, there wouldn't have been any evidence at all. No witnesses, no forensics, nothing."
"Three bullets isn't careful," Quentin agreed. "It's angry. Personal."
The pieces started clicking together in my mind. "Whoever did this wanted my father dead badly enough to risk exposure. Badly enough to frame someone for it. Badly enough to—"
I stopped.
"To what?" Quentin prompted.
"To sacrifice family relationships." I looked up at him. "Framing you meant risking war between our families. It meant putting me in danger by sending me here. It meant—it meant potentially destroying everything my father built."
"Unless that was the point," Stone said slowly. "What if this isn't about killing Big Sal? What if it's about destroying both families?"
The room went silent.
"That's—" I couldn't finish the thought. "That would be insane."
"Is it?" Quentin stood, pacing. "Think about it. Big Sal dies, I get blamed. Your family sends you to investigate. If you'd killed me, full war breaks out. Russos versus Vanettis. Both families tear each other apart. Who benefits?"
"Whoever wants us both gone," I whispered. "Whoever wants our territories, our businesses, our power."
"The Morettis," Stone said.
"Or someone else entirely." Forrest pulled up more files. "There are three other families operating in the region. Any of them would benefit from you two destroying each other."
My mind was racing. "But if that's true, then Filomena isn't the killer. She's—she's a pawn. Someone's feeding her false information, making her believe Quentin's guilty, using her to push the family toward war."
"Or," Stone countered, "she's the mastermind. She kills Big Sal, frames Quentin, manipulates the family into war, and emerges as the power behind whoever takes over."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to defend my aunt, the woman who'd raised me, taught me, loved me.
But I couldn't.
Because Stone's theory made horrible, perfect sense.
"We need proof," Quentin said. "Hard evidence. Not theories or suspicions. If we're accusing Filomena Russo of murdering her own brother and trying to start a war, we need to be absolutely certain."
"We have six days to find that proof."
"Then we'd better start digging." Forrest cracked his knuckles. "Give me access to your family's financial records, Julia. Shell companies, offshore accounts, anything you can get me. If money changed hands, I'll find it."
"I can get you some of it. But the really sensitive stuff—that's in my father's safe. Carlo has access now."
"Can you get to it?" Quentin asked.
