"Good. That's exactly what I need to be right now."
"No, it's not." His voice is sharp now. "That version of you had no limits, no conscience, no?—"
"No weaknesses," I interrupt. "That version of me got things done. That version of me didn't hesitate."
"That version of you was empty. And Savannah changed that. She made you?—"
"She made me soft." The words taste bitter. "She made me vulnerable. And look where that got us. She's in hiding upstate because I wasn't ruthless enough to end this when I had the chance."
"That's not?—"
I hang up before he can finish.
Then I spend the next six hours building the case against Whitmore.
The three new names Luca sent me all follow the same pattern. Whitmore pursued them aggressively, isolated them from friends and family, then became increasingly controlling and violent. One girl has a restraining order from two years ago that mysteriously disappeared from public records. Another transferred schools mid-semester and changed her name. The third just... vanished. No social media presence, no forwarding address, nothing. Not until Luca managed to track her down.
When I call her, she hangs up immediately. I call back. She hangs up again.
The third time, I leave a message: "My name is Romeo Ciresa. I'm not a cop. I'm not a lawyer. I'm someone who wants to make sure Thaddeus Whitmore never hurts anyone again. If you're willing to talk, I can protect you. If you're not, I understand. But please—just listen to what I have to say."
She calls back twenty minutes later.
"How did you find me?" Her voice is shaking.
"That doesn't matter. What matters is that I found other women with the same story. I have evidence. I can make sure he pays for what he did to you."
"You can't." She sounds like she’s about to cry. "His family is too powerful. They made everything disappear. They threatened my parents. They?—"
"I'm more powerful." There’s not a shred of doubt in my voice. "And I don't care about his family's money or connections or influence. I care about making sure he never touches another woman again. I’m not going to put him in prison. I’m going to do much worse than that. But I need as much information as I can get."
There's a long pause. "What do you need from me?" she asks finally.
By midnight, I have testimony from all three women. Detailed accounts of Whitmore's escalating violence. Evidence that his family has been covering for him for years. Proof that Jennifer Caldwell's death wasn't an accident. It's enough to destroy him—enough to put him in prison for the rest of his life, if I get a judge willing to overlook his last name, or one willing to take money to give me the verdict I would want.
But even looking at the evidence, knowing I could pull that off, I feel in my bones that prison isn't enough.
I want him dead.
I pull up the surveillance footage from outside Whitmore's hotel room—one of my men has been watching him since Savannah left—and I watch him come and go. I watch him meet with his lawyer. Watch him smile and laugh like he hasn't done anything wrong.
Like he hasn't terrorized the woman I love. Like he hasn't put his hands on her.
My phone buzzes with a text from one of my contacts:Whitmore just booked a flight to Charleston. Leaving tomorrow morning.
I’m sure he’s going to see Edgar Beauregard to coordinate their next move. I forward the information to Luca with a singleinstruction:Have someone meet him at the airport. I want to know everywhere he goes.
Then I turn my attention to Edgar.
Edgar Beauregard's shipping empire is built on a foundation of carefully cultivated relationships and barely legal business practices, some of it aboveboard and some of it not. I've been studying his operation for weeks now, looking for weaknesses, and I've found plenty.
His primary shipping contracts are with companies that can't afford scrutiny. Businesses that cut corners on safety regulations, deals that involve moving cargo that customs would be very interested in examining more closely. Edgar has built his fortune on being just legitimate enough to avoid serious investigation, while being just corrupt enough to maximize profits.
It's a delicate balance. And I'm about to destroy it.
I start with his largest client—a manufacturing company in Asia that ships electronics through Edgar's ports. One phone call to the right person, one carefully worded suggestion about potential customs issues, and suddenly that company is looking for a new shipping partner. Then I move to his second-largest client. Then his third. Then his fourth. I make phone calls and send at least a dozen carefully crafted emails to Edgar's business partners, each one raising just enough concern about his operations to make them nervous.
When I finish with that, I take a look at the financial records that show exactly how Edgar has been hiding his profits from the IRS. I forward those records to a contact at the Treasury Department with a simple note:Thought you might find this interesting.
