"What patterns?" Quentin's voice was sharp.
"The person who made this transfer has made similar transfers before. Always to offshore accounts. Always in amounts between one fifty and three hundred thousand. Always—" She paused. "Always coded with the same internal reference numbers."
Isobel spread documents across the table. "I cross-referenced these reference numbers with other transfers Margaret provided. There's a pattern going back five years. Twelve transfers total, all using the same authorization code."
"Do we know what the other transfers were for?" I studied the papers.
"Some were legitimate business expenses. Some were—" Margaret's voice dropped. "I strongly suspect they were payments for services rendered. Illegal services."
"Hits," Quentin said flatly.
She nodded. "The receiving account for your father's transfer belongs to Giuseppe 'Zip' Lucchese. He's—"
"A professional," I whispered. "I've heard the name."
"He specializes in making murders look like mob hits. His signature is three bullets. Chest, chest, head."
Exactly how Papa died.
"And the other transfers?" Quentin asked. "The previous ones with the same authorization code?"
"Three went to Lucchese. Two went to different contractors. The others—I don't know. The accounts are too well hidden." Margaret pulled out another document. "But there's more. I managed to retrieve some communication logs from one ofthe family phones. I can't prove whose phone it was—it was registered to a shell company—but the timing matches."
She spread out printed text messages. The sender and recipient were listed only as "User A" and "User B."
USER A: Is everything arranged?
USER B: Yes. The meeting next week.
USER A: Make it look like V. Clean. No connection back.
USER B: Understood. Price is 200k.
USER A: Done. Wire transfer tomorrow.
"V," I breathed. "Vanetti. They wanted it to look like you did it."
"The dates match," Isobel said. "These messages were sent four days before Big Sal's death. The transfer happened the next day."
"But you can't prove who sent them," Quentin said.
"No," Margaret admitted. "The phone was destroyed two weeks after your father's death. I only have these logs because they were backed up to a cloud service that the user didn't know about. But I can tell you—" She pulled out a thick folder. "This is a record of every transfer made with that authorization code over the past five years. Every suspicious payment. Every pattern."
Isobel opened the folder, scanning quickly. Her expression tightened. "These transactions... they all point to someone high-ranking in the Russo family. Someone with significant financial authority. Someone who's been ordering hits for years."
"Can you narrow it down?" I asked desperately. "Who has that specific authorization code?"
"Four people," Margaret said. "Your father had it before he died. Your aunt Filomena. Your uncle Dominic. And your cousin Silvio, though he only got access eight months ago."
"So it’s got to be one of them?”
"Looks that way," Isobel said. "And the transfers continue after his death. There are three more in the past two weeks."
My blood ran cold. "Three more?"
"Smaller amounts. Fifty thousand each. Different accounts." Margaret's hands were shaking again. "I think—I think whoever did this is trying to tie up loose ends. The amounts match the cost of—of eliminating witnesses."
"Us," Quentin said grimly. "They're trying to kill us."
