***
I spend the rest of the weekend mapping connections, printing documents, and building a file that mirrors what Ethan started.
By Sunday night, my living room looks like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream—papers taped to the wall, red string connecting names, spreadsheets covering every flat surface.
The funding trail is undeniable. Rudenko Strategic Consulting funneled money to three senators through shell corporations tied to freight operations. Those senators voted on legislation that benefited the same freight companies.
Ethan traced it back far enough to identify the pattern, and then he died in a convenient accident that closed his investigation permanently.
I sit on the floor, staring at Felix Rudenko’s name circled in red marker at the center of the web, and reach the conclusion I’ve been avoiding all weekend.
My brother’s death wasn’t random. Political corruption didn’t just touch his work—it ended his life.
The man who touched my waist in a dark hallway, who warned me about asking dangerous questions, is at the center of it.
The memory flickers back with new clarity. The way his hand lingered. The deliberate weight of his voice. The fact that he let me walk away.
My stomach tightens, fear mixing with something sharper and more complicated.
He knows who I am. He has to. Men that careful don’t leave things to chance.
Which means he’s been waiting to see what I’d do next.
I pull my laptop back open and start a new document, typing quickly before the fear can override the anger.
Notes on Rudenko Strategic Consulting. Felix Rudenko—primary officer. Ties to Sartore Syndicate. Three senators. Maritime logistics. Ethan’s investigation timeline.
I save it to an encrypted cloud folder, then email a copy to myself with a delayed send. If something happens, someone will find it.
The precaution feels paranoid and necessary in equal measure.
I glance at the clock. It’s almost midnight.
My hands are shaking, exhaustion and adrenaline competing for control. I should sleep. I should stop digging. I should take what I have to a lawyer, or a journalist, or someone who knows how to navigate this kind of danger without getting killed.
Ethan didn’t stop. He kept digging until someone stopped him, and I’m not ready to let that be the end of his story.
I close the laptop, turn off the lights, and lie down on the couch surrounded by evidence I don’t fully understand.
The last thought before sleep drags me under is his voice, low and controlled, wrapped around a warning I ignored.
You should be careful.
Too late for that now.
Chapter Three - Felix
Oleg arrives at my office before eight on Monday morning, folder in hand and expression unreadable. I’m already three emails deep into damage control from a senator’s chief of staff who got sloppy with his mistress’s NDA, so I don’t look up immediately when he sets the file on my desk.
“Diana Clarke,” he says. “Full background.”
I finish typing the response—a single line reminding the chief of staff that discretion is a professional requirement, not a suggestion—then open the folder.
The report is thorough. Twenty-three years old, born in Hartford, graduated from NYU with a degree in communications and political science. Currently employed at Clarke & Vale Marketing Agency, specializing in campaign transparency audits and compliance consulting.
She has no criminal history or outstanding debts. Financially stable, though not wealthy. She rents a one-bedroom in Brooklyn, drives a four-year-old Honda, pays her taxes on time.
It’s exactly the kind of profile that raises no flags.
