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He shows us the date and then goes back to the spreadsheet, which shows Harry received almost twenty thousand from NovaGen the very next day.

“What in the fuck were they doing to that poor woman that was worth that much money?” Gio asks with a disgusted grunt.

“I honestly don’t want to know,” Paolo’s quick to say.

Something cold and precise settles behind my sternum. Not rage. Rage is hot, messy, useless. This is colder. Sharper. This is the clarity that comes right before you pull the trigger.

“Show me the communications.”

While switching tabs, Paolo tells me about the communication between Harry and NovaGen he’s managed to get his hands on. It’s mostly emails and some texts. But as Paolo scrolls down, I also see meeting notes from a NovaGen executive’s calendar that Paolo somehow got his hands on. I don’t ask how since it doesn’t fucking matter.

“Harry wasn’t just signing papers.” Paolo scrolls through a chain of emails dated last spring. “He was negotiating. Asking for higher compensation when the trial protocols got more aggressive. There’s a meeting where he specifically requested…” Paolo stops, his eyes scanning the text. “… he requested that the seizure medication be adjusted to keep her ‘compliant’ with the trial parameters.”

The table splinters under my fist as the wood cracks. The sound echoes through the warehouse, sharp and final. Paolo flinches. Gio doesn’t move, but his posture shifts—weight forward, ready.

Straightening, I realize my knuckles are bleeding. “Do we have any motherfucking names?” I snarl. “I want the goddamn name of everyone who touched this, everyone who authorized payments. Fuck, everyone who as much as muttered Paige’s name.”

“Already sent men to Harry’s place,” Gio says.

Paolo’s mouth curves into a cold, lethal smile as he slides a printed list across the broken table. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Even though I’m pissed, I return the smile. My son might be an arrogant shit most of the time, but he’s thorough when it counts.

“NovaGen’s CEO. Their head of legal. Two trial coordinators.” Paolo ticks them off with his finger. “Two doctors who signed off on the protocols and the nurse you already know about, all three are already dead, by the way. You’re welcome. And two financial officers who handled the payments.”

I fold the paper and tuck it into my inner jacket pocket. “Thank you,” I grunt.

Gio reaches into a duffel bag at his feet and pulls out three pistols. Compact. Clean. Untraceable. He lays them on the table one by one, like a dealer setting out cards. It’s a bit redundant since I’m sure we’re all packing already. But I suppose I shouldn’t say no to extra firepower.

“Carly told me not to come home until we’ve killed the people responsible for Kira’s loss. So, let’s go.”

I pick up the first one and check the magazine, rack the slide, and tuck it into the holster at the small of my back. The routine is muscle memory. Paolo does the same with his, slower but competent. Gio handles his like it’s an extension of his hand.

We’re arming up when Gio’s phone buzzes. He checks it, and the curse that leaves his mouth is low and vicious.

“Harry’s gone.” Gio pockets the phone. “His place is empty and his phone’s off. No sign of where he went or when he left. The team’s canvassing the neighbors, but nothing yet.”

Annoying as that is, I can’t say I’m surprised. Harry’s a fucking cockroach and those bastards always run when the light finds them. I’m sure he made himself scarce the moment he realized Paige was dead.

I look at the list in my pocket. Then, at the warehouse door.

“We’ll hit NovaGen first,” I say. “Harry can wait. The money’s more important to him than breathing. Cut that off, and he’ll surface like the pest he is.”

Gio nods. Paolo is already gathering his things, his laptop snapping shut with a click.

The car starts on the first turn of the key. I pull onto the industrial road, Gio beside me, Paolo in the back, and drive toward the highway with my hands steady on the wheel and something ugly and patient sitting behind my ribs.

Harry Adams sold his wife for thirty pieces of silver. By morning, he won’t have a fucking penny to show for it.

NovaGen’s headquarters rises like a glass monument to everything I hate. Twenty stories of reflective windows and corporate landscaping.

A guy dressed in a cheap blazer mans the security desk. He stands up and stupidly rounds his desk when we walk through the automatic doors.

“Hi, can I—”

Gio’s hand finds his throat before he finishes speaking, and the man chokes out a sound like a deflating tire.

“We’re just going to borrow this.” Paolo takes the access card dangling from the guy’s belt.