And they found almost nothing useful.
I watched them search the financial office where Julian and Stefan had spent days cleaning records. The agents seized computers and file boxes. But Stefan had been meticulous. Every legitimate transaction was documented. Every questionable one was buried in layers of shell companies and offshore accounts that would take months to trace—if they could trace them at all.
The separation between legal and illegal operations was so clean that even extensive investigation wouldn't find connections.
I watched them search Sandro's office. They took his computer, his files, his financial records. But Sandro had been in this business for twenty years. He knew how to keep clean records. Everything they'd seize would show legitimate business operations. Nothing more.
I watched them search the conference room where we'd planned Winston's downfall. Where Julian had given us information about his father. Where we'd strategized how to use Valentino as cover for the leak.
My heart rate kicked up. What if they found something? What if someone had recorded conversations? What if—
They took a few files. Photographed the room. Left.
No smoking gun. No evidence of conspiracy. Nothing that would help them build a case.
I directed my security team to record everything. Every agent. Every search. Every item seized. We had cameras running from multiple angles, documenting their entire presence.
If they overstepped even slightly, we'd have proof.
Around hour three, I was in the security office reviewing footage when something on the exterior cameras caught my attention.
A man with professional camera equipment standing at the edge of the crowd that had gathered outside. Not FBI—they were all inside.
Just one man. Filming deliberately. Systematically. Getting clear shots of federal agents. Of evidence being carried out. Of everything happening.
Cold dread flooded through me.
"Who is that?" I asked, zooming in on his face.
My security chief looked at the screen. "Unknown. Want me to send someone?"
"Yes. Grab him. Bring him inside. I want to know who he is and what he's filming."
Two of my security team went outside. I watched on the monitors as they approached the man.
He saw them coming. Packed up his equipment with practiced efficiency. Disappeared into the crowd before they could reach him.
Shit.
"Get me a clear shot of his face," I ordered. "Best quality you can."
The tech enhanced the image. Pulled a clear facial shot from when the man had been setting up his camera.
I stared at the face on the screen.
Mid-twenties. Sharp features. Intense eyes. Professional equipment. Deliberate documentation.
I'd never seen him before. But something about his methodical approach to filming suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Run facial recognition," I said. "I want to know who he is."
***
Hour four. The raid was still ongoing but winding down. Agents had searched most of the building. Seized computers, files, hard drives. Diana documented everything, noting several items she'd challenge in court.
I was conferring with Sandro in his office when my phone buzzed. Text from security:ID on the camera guy. Valentino Russo. Freelance investigative journalist. Based in Brooklyn.
I went cold.
