I flip to the second page and find what Oleg buried beneath the surface details.
Family background. Parents divorced when she was twelve, father remarried and moved to California, mother relocated to Arizona eighteen months ago. One sibling: Ethan Clarke, investigative journalist, deceased.
My hand stills on the paper.
Ethan Clarke…
The name triggers recognition immediately, pulling up memories I’d filed away and stopped thinking about overa year ago. Clarke had been digging into offshore logistics, tracing money through shell companies tied to maritime freight operations. Smart work, methodical and dangerous.
He’d started connecting dots between campaign donations and cargo shipments that weren’t supposed to be visible to civilians.
Sartore had flagged him as a problem. I’d been briefed on the situation peripherally—Lorenzo’s territory, Lorenzo’s mess to contain. The accident happened a week later. Single-vehicle crash, no witnesses, investigation closed within days. Clean enough to avoid scrutiny, messy enough that I’d made a mental note to tighten our own operational protocols.
I hadn’t known Clarke had a sister.
I look up at Oleg, who’s watching me with the kind of patience that means he’s already drawn the same conclusion.
“She confronted Whitmore about donor allocations,” I say slowly, processing. “At the gala.”
“Transparency audits.” Oleg’s tone is flat. “That’s what her firm does. Campaign expenditure compliance.”
“Which means she has access to the same filings her brother was reviewing before he died.”
“Potentially.”
I lean back in my chair, fingers drumming once against the armrest before I force myself to stop.
Ethan Clarke had been good—good enough that Sartore considered him a genuine threat rather than an irritant. If his sister inherited his files, if she’s competent enough to understand what she’s looking at, then she’s not just asking uncomfortable questions at donor galas.
She’s reconstructing an investigation that ended with her brother’s death.
“Any indication she’s accessed his research?” I ask.
Oleg hesitates, which is unusual. He doesn’t hesitate unless the answer complicates things.
“Tech team flagged activity overnight,” he says carefully. “Cloud metadata tied to an alias Ethan Clarke used for encrypted storage. Someone accessed archived folders Saturday evening, multiple files downloaded.”
My jaw tightens. “Someone, or her specifically?”
“IP address matches her apartment. Whoever accessed those files knew the password.”
The implications settle like concrete in my chest. She didn’t stumble into her brother’s work by accident. She went looking.
If she decrypted his drives, she’s seen everything: shell corporations, routing maps, senator connections, the entire architecture Clarke spent months building before Sartore shut him down.
Including Rudenko Strategic Consulting’s name across multiple filings.
“Does she know what she’s looking at?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“She has a degree in political science and works in campaign finance compliance.” Oleg’s expression doesn’t shift, but his tone carries weight. “She knows.”
I close the folder and push it aside, forcing my mind into the same analytical framework I use for every operational problem. Assess the threat. Identify variables. Determine containment strategy. Execute without hesitation.
Diana Clarke is a civilian with access to information that could expose Rudenko operations, trigger federal investigations into three sitting senators, and destabilize the fragile trucebetween Bratva and Sartore interests. If she goes public—if she hands those files to the right journalist or federal prosecutor—the fallout cascades across multiple territories.
The solution is obvious. Sartore would handle it the same way they handled her brother: remove the liability, stage the accident, close the file.
My phone vibrates on the desk. I glance at the screen and see Lorenzo Sartore’s name.
