20. Smoke Signals
SMOKE SIGNALS
CHARLIE
I ’ve led Jace through plenty of missions that required me to come into work before sunrise.
Sometimes, even in the middle of the night.
I’ve never come in this early when it wasn’t for a mission.
But as busy as work has been, this is the only time I have to deal with my sense of uneasiness that only digging through digital paper trails can soothe.
When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, I’m met with the kind of eerie silence that makes it feel as if I’ve walked into a post-apocalyptic workplace. Normally, the bullpen is buzzing with analysts, operatives, and officers. But right now, it’s just me. And I am so ready to get to work.
I turn on my computer and monitor, slip off my shoes, pull my yogurt and granola from my bag, and sink into my chair like I’m settling in for a long flight, but with far more clandestine research and legroom. “Alright, Giovanni. Let’s see what kind of secrets you’re hiding.”
For the past several days, a semi-reasonable voice keeps popping in my head asking me what in the world I am thinking.
Why investigate Giovanni when everything about him initially looks clean?
Can’t I just accept that at face value? Then Owen could continue on with his restoration, and everything would be great.
But then a much louder, more responsible voice (probably the ghost of every intelligence instructor I’ve ever had) kicks in and says that sketchiness always escalates.
Sketchy people don’t just sit quietly being sketchy—they build on it until someone gets hurt.
And if I don’t catch Giovanni’s smoke trail now, Owen might be standing in the middle of a burning dream later.
So. Gloves off. Time to dig.
Emerson already did the basics—surface scans, legit databases, eyebrow raises. I’m going deeper. I start with Giovanni’s wife, since the whole “here’s a random photo of my spouse, don’t ask follow-up questions” vibe was the first thing that pinged my internal alarm system.
I don’t have the photo he showed me, but Emerson found her Instagram, and since she appears to love posting as much as Mackenzie does, I find that same theater picture.
I run a reverse image search and—bingo—it shows up in a promotional graphic for a performance of The Seagull in Florence from six years ago.
I find the playbill from it, and her name’s on it. So that checks out.
Still, something’s weird. Despite being married, Giovanni doesn’t show up in any of her photos. Not even in the background. Not even in the “My love took me out tonight, look at this blurry plate of pasta” kind of way. Maybe the marriage isn’t real, or maybe that’s just the way they roll.
Things might be off there, but my gut tells me that I’m not pulling on the right thread. So I move on to Giovanni’s luxury import/export business in Alexandria, Virginia. Which, honestly, sounds like a front even before I open the file.
I start combing through shipment logs, customs forms, and tax filings, and bingo again—a shipment from Romania listed as ceramic goods, a 19th-century replica.
It arrived just days before Giovanni showed up to ogle The Shadowridge in person.
Suspicious? Yes. Illegal? Not on its own.
But in spy work, ‘suspicious’ is the first domino in the tipping line.
I get excited for a second when a travel record pings a low-tier watch list, only to find out it belongs to a different Giovanni Vitale.
Probably a charming old guy who just really likes discounted airfare and chain restaurants.
Not our guy. But that’s okay—I’m not going to get discouraged over chasing leads that turn out to be red herrings.
Next, I turn to the money behind the restoration.
The company that’s sending funds for the restoration of The Shadowridge is a shell corporation.
So I go spelunking. It takes digging upon digging upon digging some more, but eventually, it leads to hits on multiple international properties, including a warehouse outside Marrakesh and a dockyard in Naples. And now I’m definitely seeing smoke.
And then it happens—the moment all the digital sleuthing pays off. I find aliases. Several. All linked to Giovanni. The kind of stuff that doesn’t show up on a casual background check, but it sets off every internal klaxon I’ve got.
Hours must have passed because people are filtering in for the work day to start.
My yogurt still sits on my desk, untouched, and now warm.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my face.
This might not be a smoking gun, exactly, but it’s smoke.
A lot of smoke. And Giovanni is standing in the middle of it with a flamethrower, whistling like he’s innocent.
You may be clean on paper, but I see you, Mr. Vitale. And I’m not going to stop trying to find what you’re hiding. Not when Owen—and his dreams, and that vintage marquee he’s been talking about—are on the line.