The problem with exposing powerful men is that powerful men usually own the people you're supposed to expose them to.
Police?
Some were in the ledger.
Judges?
Same problem.
Federal investigators?
Potentially safer, but not untouched.
Christian decided we needed multiple copies delivered simultaneously to journalists, federal agencies, attorneys, and rival political offices.
"If one person can bury it," I said, "we send it to twenty."
Christian nodded.
"Exactly."
My mother looked at me with something close to pride.
"You sound like your father."
That hurt.
But this time, in a good way.
For two days we worked from an abandoned Russo warehouse.
I decrypted files.
Evelyn explained names.
Marco coordinated security.
Christian dismantled pieces of his own organization that had been compromised by Salvatore.
Watching him was strange.
I'd expected a ruthless crime boss to react to betrayal with violence.
Christian reacted with paperwork.
Bank accounts were frozen.
Access cards canceled.
Contracts terminated.
Warehouses emptied.
People disappeared from positions of power without disappearing from the earth.
"You could kill them," I said one night.
"Yes."
"But you aren't."
"No."
"Why?"
He looked at me.
"Because you asked me not to."
My chest tightened.
"That's a terrible reason."
"It's the only one I have."
There it was.
The thing growing between us.
Neither of us had named it.
Maybe because naming things makes them real.
We stood on the warehouse roof overlooking Chicago.
The skyline glittered far away.
"You know," I said, "three days ago my biggest problem was losing my job."
"I can give you a job."
"I don't want your charity."
"It wouldn't be charity. You discovered a financial leak my entire auditing department missed."
"Maybe you need better accountants."
"I clearly do."
I laughed.
Christian watched me.
Too long.
The city seemed to disappear.
"What?" I whispered.
"You aren't afraid of me anymore."
"I am."
His expression changed.
"But not for the reasons you think."
He stepped closer.
"What reasons?"
I should have moved away.
Instead, I looked at him.
"I'm afraid I'll start believing you're not the man everybody says you are."
Christian's voice dropped.
"And what happens if you believe that?"
"I might care what happens to you."
He touched my cheek.
Very gently.
A man whose hands carried scars and violence touched me as if I were something breakable.
"Lena."
I kissed him.
Maybe it was reckless.
Maybe almost dying repeatedly changes your standards for caution.
He froze.
Then his hand moved behind my neck.
The kiss deepened.
For one impossible minute, there was no Moretti.
No ledger.
No dead father.
No hidden mother.
Only us.
Then Christian pulled away.
"We shouldn't."
I laughed softly.
"You've done a lot worse."
"That's the problem."
He looked at me as though being close to him was another kind of danger.
"My world destroys people."
"Your world already found me."
Before he could answer, Marco opened the roof door.
"Boss."
Christian immediately stepped back.
"What?"
"We've got a problem."
Moretti had taken Anthony Vale's son.
A video arrived fifteen minutes later.
Anthony's son, Michael, sat tied to a chair.
Victor Moretti stood behind him.
It was the first time I'd seen the man responsible for my father's death.
He looked almost ordinary.
Late sixties.
Silver hair.
Tailored suit.
Soft voice.
"The ledger for the boy," he said. "Midnight. Union Station."
Anthony watched the video from his hospital bed remotely.
"I'll go."
Christian shook his head.
"No."
"He's my son."
"It's a trap."
"I don't care."
I understood him.
Christian did too.
At 11:48 p.m., we entered Union Station.
Christian wanted me nowhere near it.
I went anyway.
Moretti had requested Anthony.
We sent Anthony.
But the ledger wasn't with him.
Copies had already been scheduled for release at 12:15.
Our insurance.
The station was nearly empty.
Moretti's men appeared from both sides.
Michael sat tied to a bench.
Anthony walked forward.
"My son first."
Moretti smiled.
"The drive."
Anthony held it up.
Moretti took Michael by the shoulder and pushed him forward.
Then a gunshot sounded.
Anthony collapsed.
Michael screamed.
Moretti had shot him.
Chaos erupted.
Christian's men moved.
Passengers scattered.
Police sirens sounded outside.
I ducked behind a pillar.
Christian shouted my name.
Moretti saw me.
His expression changed.
"Evelyn's daughter."
He came toward me.
I ran.
He caught my coat.
I twisted.
The fabric tore.
I slammed my elbow backward.
He cursed.
Then pointed a gun at my chest.
"You have your father's eyes."
"Did he look at you before you killed him?"
Moretti smiled.
"No. He looked at your mother."
I hated him.
But hatred can make you stupid.
My mother had taught me better.
So I kept him talking.
"You spent twenty-two years looking for one little necklace."
"Your mother was clever."
"Cleverer than you."
His smile disappeared.
"You think Russo can save you?"
"He doesn't need to."
I held up my phone.
Moretti stared.
The screen showed a live broadcast.
Everything he'd said had been transmitted.
Including his admission.
His face changed.
I smiled.
"My mother taught me to plan ahead."
He raised his gun.
Christian fired.
The bullet struck Moretti's shoulder.
Police flooded the station.
Moretti fell.
Christian reached me.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
He grabbed my face with both hands.
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep asking."
Then he kissed me in front of half the Chicago Police Department.
It was reckless.
Messy.
Perfect.
Behind us, Victor Moretti was arrested.
But the victory lasted only eleven minutes.
Because at 12:11, Marco received a call.
He turned pale.
"What?"
Marco looked at Christian.
"Salvatore escaped."
Christian's face hardened.
Then Marco looked at me.
"And he has Evelyn."
My mother.
Gone again.
Only this time, I knew exactly who had taken her.
---