Thirty-four
Ciro
I hold the filing on my screen, my finger resting on the trackpad as I scan the numbers once more.
It’s wrong.
The company is listed as closed. The paperwork is clean, filed months after the accident, signed off and buried where it should stay.
But the money doesn’t stop.
Not enough to draw attention. Small transfers. Quiet ones. The kind designed to disappear inside larger accounts unless someone is looking for them specifically.
I lean back slightly in my chair, staring at the line item again while the lights of the city blur beyond the windows of my office.
Someone kept it alive.
My phone vibrates against the desk, sharp in the silence.
I don’t look at the number as I pick it up, turning slightly in my chair while keeping the screen in my line of sight.
“Ciro Marino,” I say, my voice low as I brace my forearm against the desk.
“It’s Jim.”
I shift forward, dragging the authorization line higher so it sits centered on the screen. “Any news?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the date.
“I wanted to give you an update on Massimo,” he says, background noise carrying faint traffic and an engine idling. “He’s still partying it up at the Hollywood clubs. We feel confident they have someone watching for Chiara to show up and swoop in.”
I keep the filing open, my thumb pressed into the edge of the desk as I bring the phone back to my ear, the clinic address still sitting beside the authorization line.
“Jim, we are not approaching Patrizia directly?”
He exhales softly on the line. “Right now, the opportunity is clean and contained.”
I tap the desk once, keeping my eyes on the screen. “Don’t you think we should confirm she is who we think she is? They had a funeral for her. I just have this nagging question that they’re wrong.”
There is a brief pause on the line before he answers. “You want her confirmation without contact,” he says, shifting his weight audibly. “That limits our options.”
I straighten in my chair. “She has a routine,” I say. “People move around her every day without consequence.”
“That does not give us proximity,” he says, pushing back. “It gives us observation.”
“It gives you access if you stop trying to force it,” I say, pressing my palm flat against the desk. “You get someone to become her friend, and then maybe she’ll open up.”
He exhales slowly. “She isn’t going to talk to anyone,” he says. “We don’t even know if her husband knows about her past. I wouldn’t count on her making such a friendship she’d share that she was once married to a mafia don and left her family and is hiding in the Malibu Colony under a fake name.”
He’s right. How can we play this?
“I know. Just… Continue to keep an eye on her and Massimo,” I say, turning slightly in the chair as I keep my focus forward. “Neither can notice you if they do, you’ve failed.”
“Okay, and then what?” he asks, not letting it go.
I drag my finger once across the edge of the desk, grounding it. “We wait.”
“I can’t imagine Enzo Bullucci is going to let his kid party in LA forever,” Jim says. “They’ll call him home.”
“I agree.”
“She doesn’t leave the Colony much. She goes to the yoga studio and takes her own pad. She never leaves behind even a paper towel or a paper cup. But when she does, my team will be there and we can grab some DNA.”
I end the call and set the phone down beside the keyboard, keeping my hand there as the screen holds steady in front of me.
She is visible, and that visibility is controlled.
Which means we don’t move on her.
And if we don’t move on her, the pressure increases.
I press the internal line to Jasmine without shifting my gaze.
“Can you send Victor in,” I say, my fingers still resting against the desk.
“He’s right outside your door,” she replies. “I’ll send him in.”
“Thank you,” I say, ending the call.
The knock lands sharp against the door.
“Come in,” I say, turning the chair a fraction while keeping one hand anchored to the desk.
Victor steps inside and closes the door behind him, his attention moving from me to the screens and back again.
“You needed me?” he asks, stopping just inside the room.
I gesture toward the space in front of the desk. “What’s the current status with Chiara?” I ask, sliding the file slightly to the left.
“She is working. Two guards are in position on her floor. No movement beyond routine.”
“And Chiara remains in someone’s sight at all times,” he says, pushing the point.
“She remains where she is,” I say. “No deviation.”
“She is already pushing against that,” he says, leaning in slightly. “If we tighten further, she will react.”
“Maintain coverage,” I say, turning back to the screen and dragging another record into place. “Increase observation on all exits. No one moves without clearance.”
“Will do.”
“If this changes, I need to know immediately,” I say.
He pauses with his hand on the door. “You will.”
He steps out and closes the door behind him.
I keep my focus on the screen, my hand settling back against the desk.
Nothing moves until I understand it.