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“Someone did,” Santiago says.

“Yes,” Adrianos says. “Someone did. They built it to point at me, which is a different thing entirely, and I’d think a man with your instincts would see the difference.”

Santiago’s jaw goes so tight I can see the muscle working from across the table.

“Enough,” Lorenzo says.

One word, but it comes from a man with enough authority to make both of them pause.

“This is exactly what they want,” Lorenzo says. “Two kings bleeding each other out before we know who swung the knife. We don’t give them that.” He looks at Santiago, then at Adrianos, then takes the whole table in one pass. “Two bodies. Same mark. A trail pointing at Greek money. That’s what we know. Who built the trail, we don’t know yet. What we need is the name behind OB6.”

I keep my hands folded on the table and my face neutral. I don’t look at Volkov as I think about my father’s final entry and the fact that he died before he could take out the blackmailing bastard.

Declan sets his beer down and clears his throat. Every head turns toward him at once. “Someone’s been sitting on this a long time,” he says. “Long enough to build it years out, put dead men’s names on live companies, hire muscle that’s got no idea what job it’s actually doing.” He takes the new bottle that Valeria brought him and opens it. “That’s not a crew. That’s one person who’s been very, very quiet.”

“Someone in these rooms,” Lorenzo says.

Nobody argues. The silence that follows is the silence of five powerful men sitting with a thought none of them is willing to name first.

Lorenzo proposes the two-week documentation window. Santiago agrees after a pause long enough to make his position clear, Adrianos agrees with his charm still running, Declan lifts his beer, and Volkov says da.

Lorenzo closes the meeting, thanking each king in turn. He thanks me last, holding my gaze a beat longer than the others.

The room begins to empty, the kings getting ready to leave. I pull my coat on when I notice the change in the air. It’s not a sound or even a word.

I turn to see what’s happening.

Declan is by the door with his phone in his hand, his face is white as a sheet.

Adrianos is closest, he puts his hand on Declan’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?

Declan looks up from the phone, at Adrianos, then at the room. He lifts his phone, showing us the message.

“You can’t bury what you can’t see,” he says. “Some ghosts don’t move on. They turn into poltergeists.”

27

Volkov

Ghosts should stay buried.

I’ve been chewing on it for twenty minutes, and it keeps tasting wrong.

Evelina’s got her elbow on the window ledge, watching Brooklyn go by. I’ve got my fist against my mouth and my eyes on the road ahead. Neither of us has said anything since we cleared the DeLuca gate. Marka’s not stupid enough to fill the silence.

“He got a message,” she says, working through her own thoughts.

“Da.”

“Mid-meeting.” She turns her head toward me. “Someone timed that.”

“Yeah,” I say. “They did.”

She turns back to the window. I drum my fingers once on my knee and stop, because it’s not helping. I’ve been turning Declan’s face over in my head since we left, that split second when he read whatever was on that phone and every muscle in it went flat and still.

The estate gate comes up, gravel crunching under the tires, the security light sweeping the front, and I’m out before Marka’s put it in park.

I go straight to the office. That’s where I’ll find the answers.