He’s right. Dante would interrogate the source. I need the substance.
I turn back to the call logs. Start tracing the numbers through my mental map of the family’s contacts.
One number is a Chicago area code. Another traces to a law firm I recognize from the Benedetti case files Dante keeps in his bottom drawer.
My pulse quickens.
“These calls,” I say, measuring each word. “The timing. They’re all within forty-eight hours of major family decisions. The warehouse expansion. The dock negotiations. The wedding.”
I flip to the most recent entry.
Two days before Elena ran.
Marco goes still. “You think he’s reporting to someone.”
I meet his eyes. “I think Romano isn’t just stealing from this family. I think he’s been informing on them for years.”
The silence stretches between us.
Marco’s jaw works. His nostrils flare. Then his chin lifts, just a fraction, and his shoulders pull back.
“I knew something was off about him,” he says, voice rough. “How he watches. How he’s always positioned to hear things he shouldn’t. I’ve been saying it for months.”
“Who did you tell?”
“No one who listened.”
I understand that. Being right and being dismissed. Seeing patterns no one else wants to acknowledge. I’ve lived that my whole life.
“You did good work.”
His lips part. His throat bobs on a swallow. Then his frame goes rigid, hands curling at his sides, and the look in his eyes burns so raw I have to look away.
“I’ve been doing good work for seven years.” The words come out rough. “No one bothered to notice.”
I hold his gaze. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Neither do I. So I just nod, and he nods back.
“Figure out what it means,” he says. “Then tell Dante. He’ll listen to you.”
He’s gone before I can respond. Slipping out like he was never here. Like he didn’t just hand me the final piece of a puzzle that’s been driving me mad for days.
I look down at the call logs. Then at the shell company records. Then at Elena’s payment routing.
Fabio Romano. Embezzlement. Espionage. The Benedetti connection, confirmed.
I have everything I need.
I’m organizing the evidence into a coherent presentation when the air shifts.
I don’t hear footsteps on the hardwood or the door opening. I just feel it. A presence. Someone watching.
I look up.
Romano stands at the entrance.
The numbers fire through my skull like a survival reflex.One, two, three.They can’t help me here.
