Chapter 10
I approach Mighty Dragon Restaurant like any other tired customer seeking a late dinner. My shoulders slouch just enough, my pace matching the weary shuffle of the few pedestrians still out at this hour. The neon sign flickers overhead, casting intermittent red shadows across the cracked sidewalk.
Three cab changes, six deliberate wrong turns, and two hours of circular routes have brought me here.
Each step closer to the restaurant’s entrance requires suppressing the urge to check over my shoulder.
Amateur move. Instead, I study reflections in store windows, tracking movements in my peripheral vision.
The restaurant’s greasy windows offer natural camouflage, steam condensing in rivulets that distort the view inside.
Perfect. Through the clouded glass, I count four customers scattered across the dining room.
The dinner rush has dwindled to elderly regulars nursing cups of tea.
No one pays attention to yet another woman seeking cheap Chinese food.
Roberto chose well. Mr. and Mrs. Hueng’s debt to him runs deep—the kind of loyalty bought not with money but with justice.
When corrupt officials tried squeezing protection money from immigrant businesses in the area, Roberto’s exposé shut them down.
The weathered restaurant stands as a testament to that victory.
I pause at the corner, pretending to check my phone while scanning the street one final time. No sign of Remy’s security team, but that means nothing. He’s too good to be obvious. My skin prickles with the familiar sensation of being watched, though logic tells me I’m clear.
The restaurant’s faded red awning flutters in the evening breeze.
No one watches the door.
I twist through the cramped aisles, navigating between closely packed tables.
The familiar scents of garlic and ginger mingle with sizzling oil, creating that distinct aroma that clings to everything in Chinese restaurants.
My heels click softly against the worn linoleum, each step measured and deliberate.
Mrs. Hueng’s weathered face shows no recognition as I pass the register, but her quick glance toward the kitchen speaks volumes. Clear path. No watchers.
“Going to use your restroom,” I say with a tired smile, just another customer. Mrs. Hueng barely nods, focused on her calculator.
The back storeroom hits me with a wall of different scents—star anise, dried mushrooms, and the earthiness of rice. Roberto’s bulky silhouette emerges between towering shelves, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by tight worry lines around his eyes.
“Are you all right?” His voice is barely above a whisper as he slides a basic flip phone across the scratched folding table. “I’ve been worried sick since your message.”
I pocket the phone smoothly, calculating my response. Remy’s face flashes through my mind—his knowing smirks, the heat of his touch, the calculated way he watches my every move. None of which Roberto needs to know.
“Had a few issues,” I keep my tone light, casual. “Nothing serious.”
Roberto’s eyes narrow slightly. He knows me too well—knows when I’m editing the truth. Eight years of working together builds that kind of insight. But he also knows when not to push.
I take the metal folding chair, positioning myself to watch the door while appearing relaxed.
Roberto’s fingers drum silently on the table, a nervous tell I’ve never seen from him before. His usual eager energy is replaced by something tenser and darker. When he leans forward, the overhead fluorescent light catches the sweat beading on his forehead.
“It’s worse than we thought,” he whispers, and my stomach clenches at his tone.
The color drains from Roberto’s face as he leans closer. “Two journalists working similar angles—both dead in the past week. Car accident in Milan. Gas leak in Prague.”
My throat constricts. I know those names. Maria Kovac had been helping investigate shipping manifests. Thomas Reid was tracking money trails through Eastern Europe as a side job for me.
“Accidents?” My voice catches.
Roberto’s head shake is barely perceptible. “Professional hits. Your father’s hired cleaners. Ex-military types who specialize in making problems vanish.”
The familiar metallic taste of fear floods my mouth. I’ve seen this pattern before—the systematic elimination of threats, the closing of loose ends. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s personal.
“Ano’s paranoid,” Roberto continues, his voice dropping even lower. “He’s calling in every favor, activating every contact. The whole empire’s mobilizing.”
My fingers grip the edge of the folding table, knuckles white. “How bad?”
Roberto’s eyes meet mine, and the grimness there makes my stomach drop. “He reached out to Remy Harding.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Remy. My instinct had been right to flee.
“Twenty million,” Roberto says softly. “That’s what Ano’s offering him to handle you. Permanently.”
Ice spreads through my veins as the full weight of those words settles in. I think of Remy’s careful control, his calculated moves, the way he watched me. Was each touch, each kiss, just part of his strategy to keep me close until he decided how to collect?
“The cleaners are methodical,” Roberto continues, outlining the systematic elimination of anyone who might corroborate my investigation.
“Three dock workers who handled suspicious containers—gone. A customs officer who asked too many questions—disappeared. They’re burning everything to the ground, Eve. ”
I force myself to breathe, to think past the suffocating reality closing in around me. My own father has put a price on my head. And the man I’ve trusted with my safety might be contemplating whether to collect it.
The photographs slide across the sticky table, partially hidden behind towers of soy sauce boxes. My chest tightens as Roberto whispers their names.
“Wilber Mercado and Terrell Heath.”
I study the first photo. Mercado stares back with glacial eyes, his silver hair immaculate against an expensive charcoal suit.
Everything about him screams old money and calculated precision.
The second photo shows Heath—younger, hungrier, with the sharp features of someone who climbed fast through the corporate ranks.
His Harvard MBA likely opened the right doors at Montoni Shipping.
“Both had full access,” Roberto continues, his voice barely carrying over the rhythmic chopping from the kitchen. “Internal documents, sensitive materials—everything. And both vanished in the last week. And one of them is suspected to have taken documents before they disappeared.”
My hands feel clammy as I trace the edge of Mercado’s photo. “How?”
“Mercado’s car was found at O’Hare. He never made his flight to Geneva.” Roberto leans closer, the fluorescent light casting harsh shadows across his face. “Heath is worse. Walked out of a routine meeting and simply… disappeared. His penthouse is untouched. Like he just evaporated.”
Steam seeps under the storeroom door, carrying the sharp scent of ginger and garlic. The small space feels increasingly claustrophobic as Roberto’s words sink in.
“One of them knows everything and could provide the testimony we need,” he whispers.
My hand trembles slightly as I slide the photos back. Two men who could corroborate everything, both gone within days of each other. This isn’t a coincidence. This is clean-up.
“How long?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“Seventy-two hours. Maybe less.” Roberto’s expression is grim. “After that, Ano’s will unleash his hounds and, and I don’t know…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.
The kitchen’s steam makes it hard to breathe as I process the reality. Our key witnesses might already be dead, and with them, any chance of proving my father’s crimes.
The kitchen clamor provides the perfect cover for our hushed conversation. Pots clang against metal surfaces, orders are shouted in rapid-fire Cantonese, and the sizzle of woks creates a wall of sound that swallows our whispers.
“We should publish now,” Roberto urges, his voice barely carrying over the kitchen noise. “Get it out there, create public pressure. If Mercado or Heath are still alive, seeing the story break might draw them out.”
The evidence before us is damning, but without either executive’s testimony or their documented proof, the originals, it won’t be enough. I’ve spent years watching my father’s legal team destroy stronger cases.
“If we move too soon, we’ll lose everything,” I whisper, the words almost lost beneath a particularly loud crash from the kitchen. “And if they’re still alive, going public now would sign their death warrants.”
The faces flash through my mind—girls I interviewed in safe houses, women who trusted me with their stories of being trafficked, families still searching for missing daughters.
Their testimonies, their tears, their desperate hope that someone would finally expose the truth.
I can’t let them down, can’t waste this chance, no matter how terrified I am.
My hands shake slightly as I gather the documents, but my voice stays steady. “We need to find at least one of these men before Ano’s cleaners do, or the entire case collapses.”
Roberto nods grimly. We both know our window of opportunity is closing fast.
“We need more time,” I insist, gripping the edge of the folding table. “These potential witnesses won’t talk if we spook them. They’ll vanish deeper.”
Roberto shakes his head. “There is no more time, Eve. And now with Remy—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off. The mention of Remy sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “We need to think this through. If we rush—”
“Listen,” Roberto leans forward, his voice dropping lower. “I have a safe house. Off-grid, secure. 4387 West Palmer. The key’s under—”
A crash from the restaurant cuts him off. Roberto jumps up, peering through the crack in the storeroom door. His face goes pale.
“Three men,” he whispers. “Armed. They’re—”