“Leave,” I tell Oleg.
He exits without comment, closing the door behind him.
I let the call ring twice more before answering, keeping my voice neutral. “Lorenzo.”
“Felix.” His tone carries the casual ease of someone who’s certain he holds leverage. “I assume you’ve seen the Clarke situation.”
I don’t ask how he knows. Sartore has their own intelligence channels, and Diana’s late-night file access probably triggered alerts across multiple monitoring systems. Information moves faster than containment in this world.
“I’m aware,” I say.
“Then you understand the problem.” Lorenzo doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Ethan Clarke’s sister accessed his archived research. If she pieces together what he was investigating, both our operations are exposed.”
“She’s a marketing consultant conducting transparency audits. That doesn’t make her a threat.”
“It makes her a liability.” His voice hardens slightly. “One we can’t afford to ignore.”
I lean forward, elbows on the desk, forcing myself to consider this rationally rather than react to the tightness spreading through my chest.
Lorenzo is right. Operationally, strategically, Diana Clarke represents unacceptable risk. Her brother died because he refused to stop digging; she’s now following the same path with the same information.
The smart move is elimination. Quick, contained, attributed to something mundane. We can frame it as just another tragic accident in a family that’s already suffered one.
“I’m suggesting removal,” Lorenzo continues when I don’t respond immediately. “Before she has time to share what she’s found.”
“That’s premature.”
The words come out before I’ve fully decided to say them, and Lorenzo’s silence on the other end suggests he’s as surprised as I am.
“Premature,” he repeats slowly. “She has access to files that implicate both our organizations in federal crimes. How is containment premature?”
“Killing a civilian draws attention we don’t need.” I shift into operational justification, framing this as strategy rather than hesitation. “Her brother’s death already raised questions. A second fatal accident in the same family triggers investigations we can’t control.”
“Then discredit her. Make it look like conspiracy theory nonsense.”
“That works if she goes public immediately. If she’s smart—and her background suggests she is—she’ll build the case carefully before exposing it. Which gives us time to assess whether she’s actually a threat or just a grieving sister looking for answers.”
Lorenzo’s silence stretches long enough that I know he’s weighing my resistance against his own instincts. Sartoreoperates with brutal efficiency; sentiment doesn’t factor in to their decisions. The fact that I’m arguing for surveillance over elimination signals something he’ll interpret as weakness.
“Surveillance,” he says finally. “Forty-eight hours. If she makes contact with journalists, federal investigators, or anyone who could amplify her findings, we move. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
The call ends.
I set the phone down and stare at the folder on my desk, Diana Clarke’s profile photo clipped to the inside cover. It’s a professional headshot, probably from her firm’s website—dark hair pulled back, confident smile, eyes sharp and assessing.
I remember those eyes. The way they met mine in the hallway without flinching, awareness mixed with defiance, heat simmering beneath the surface when I stepped too close.
She should be a simple problem with a simple solution. But the memory of her waist beneath my hands, the soft weight of her body pressed briefly against mine, complicates the decision in ways I can’t afford.
I call Oleg back into the office.
“Surveillance,” I tell him. “I need full monitoring of her apartment, workplace, and all communications. I want real-time updates on every movement, every contact, every file she accesses.”
“Elimination?”
“Not yet.” I meet his gaze directly. “We contain her. Learn what she knows and who she’s planning to tell. Then we decide.”
