Chapter 12 Elio
I SEALED THE safe room door and stood in my office listening to the sounds of the raid happening throughout the building.
Every instinct I had screamed to go back inside. To stay with Julian. To protect him directly instead of leaving him alone in that small room while chaos erupted around us.
But I couldn't. I had responsibilities. A club to protect. Partners who depended on me. Employees who needed direction. If I disappeared into the safe room with Julian, it would raise questions I couldn't answer.
So I forced myself to walk away from the bookshelf concealing him and focus on the immediate crisis.
My phone buzzed. Text from Sandro: Diana's on her way. Stall them until she gets here. Don't let them seize anything without her reviewing the warrant first.
Diana Martinez. Our lawyer. The same one who'd gotten us through the RICO trial. If anyone could handle federal agents with an overly broad warrant, it was her.
I went to the main floor where agents were herding employees into groups. They'd separated everyone by department. Bartenders in one corner. Security in another. Kitchen staff against the far wall.
The lead agent—tall, white, early forties with the kind of confidence that came from federal authority—approached me.
"Elio Marino?"
"Yes."
"Special Agent Tom Patterson. We have a warrant to search these premises." He held out paperwork. "You're welcome to review it while we conduct our search."
I took the warrant but didn't look at it. "My attorney is on her way. You'll wait for her arrival before seizing anything."
"We have legal authority to—"
"And I have legal counsel who'll ensure you follow proper procedure. You can search while we wait for her. But nothing leaves this building until she reviews that warrant and confirms its scope."
Patterson's jaw tightened. "Mr. Marino, obstruction of a federal investigation is—"
"Not what I'm doing. I'm exercising my legal rights.
You can proceed with your search. You just can't remove evidence until my attorney confirms you're operating within the bounds of your warrant.
" I met his eyes. "Unless you'd like to explain to a federal judge why you refused to allow counsel to review documentation before seizing property? "
He stared at me for a long moment. Then nodded curtly. "Fine. But the clock's ticking. If your lawyer isn't here in thirty minutes, we proceed without her."
"She'll be here in fifteen."
I walked away before he could respond. Pulled out my phone and texted my security team: Cooperate fully. Record everything. Every search, every question, every item they touch. Multiple cameras. I want documentation of their entire presence here.
Responses came back immediately. Already on it. Every agent's being recorded from multiple angles.
Good. If they overstepped, we'd have proof.
I found Matteo in the security office. He was watching agents search the space with barely contained violence radiating off him.
"The moles?" I asked quietly.
"Locked in the basement storage room. Secured before the agents arrived. They don't know we have them." His voice was low. Controlled. "We'll handle them after this is over."
"And Stefan?"
"Safe room in our apartment. He's watching on remote monitors but he's protected."
I nodded. Of course Matteo had secured Stefan first. Just like I'd secured Julian.
These men we'd fallen for had become our primary concern before anything else.
"How's Julian?" Matteo asked.
"Terrified but safe. Hidden where they won't find him."
"Good. Because if David Reeves gets his hands on Winston's son, he'll use that as leverage to rebuild the entire case."
The thought made cold rage flood through me. "That's not happening."
"No. It's not." Matteo's expression was grim. "But Elio? This raid isn't random. The moles tipped them off about this morning's meeting. They knew we were onto them. They moved fast to preserve whatever case they could build before we cleaned house."
"Then we make sure they find nothing."
Diana Martinez arrived twelve minutes after Patterson gave me his deadline.
She swept through Inferno's entrance like she owned it—five-foot-six of concentrated legal expertise in a designer suit, carrying a leather briefcase that probably cost more than the warrant she was about to dismantle.
"Elio." She nodded at me. "Where's the warrant?"
I handed it to her. She read it standing right there in the middle of the main floor, with federal agents watching and employees being questioned and chaos swirling around her.
After three minutes, she looked up.
"They're fishing. The scope is overly broad and the probable cause is thin. But it's technically legitimate." She looked around at the agents searching. "Who's in charge?"
"Special Agent Tom Patterson."
"Get him. Now."
I gestured to Patterson. He approached with obvious reluctance.
"Special Agent Patterson, I'm Diana Martinez, legal counsel for Inferno and its ownership. I've reviewed your warrant. The scope of your search authorization needs clarification."
"It's perfectly clear—"
"Section three allows you to search for 'evidence of ongoing criminal enterprise.' That's vague to the point of being unconstitutional. What specific criminal activity are you investigating?"
"That's confidential—"
"It's required to be specified in the warrant, which it's not.
You're authorized to search for financial records, communications, and electronic devices.
But the parameters of what constitutes relevant evidence need to be clearly defined or you're conducting an illegal fishing expedition.
" Diana's voice was sharp. Professional.
"I'm putting you on notice, Agent Patterson.
Any evidence seized outside the clearly defined scope of this warrant will be challenged in court and likely deemed inadmissible. Do you understand?"
Patterson's face flushed. "Ms. Martinez, we have every legal right—"
"To search within the bounds of your warrant.
Not to conduct a blanket seizure of everything you find interesting.
I'll be observing your search and documenting every item removed.
If any of it falls outside proper scope, I'll file suppression motions immediately.
" She smiled. Cold. Sharp. "Shall we proceed? "
Patterson looked like he wanted to argue. Instead he just nodded and walked away.
Diana turned to me. "They can search. They can seize items specifically related to financial crimes or communications relevant to organized crime operations. But I'll be watching every move. If they overstep, we'll bury them in legal challenges."
"Thank you."
"Thank Sandro for keeping me on retainer. This is exactly why you need good legal counsel." She pulled out a tablet. "Now show me what they're searching. I need to track everything."
***
The next three hours were controlled chaos.
Agents searched every office. Every storage room. Every private space in the building. They were thorough. Systematic. Professional.
And they found almost nothing useful.
I watched them search the financial office where Julian and Stefan had spent days cleaning records.
The agents seized computers and file boxes.
But Stefan had been meticulous. Every legitimate transaction was documented.
Every questionable one was buried in layers of shell companies and offshore accounts that would take months to trace—if they could trace them at all.
The separation between legal and illegal operations was so clean that even extensive investigation wouldn't find connections.
I watched them search Sandro's office. They took his computer, his files, his financial records. But Sandro had been in this business for twenty years. He knew how to keep clean records. Everything they'd seize would show legitimate business operations. Nothing more.
I watched them search the conference room where we'd planned Winston's downfall. Where Julian had given us information about his father. Where we'd strategized how to use Valentino as cover for the leak.
My heart rate kicked up. What if they found something? What if someone had recorded conversations? What if—
They took a few files. Photographed the room. Left.
No smoking gun. No evidence of conspiracy. Nothing that would help them build a case.
I directed my security team to record everything. Every agent. Every search. Every item seized. We had cameras running from multiple angles, documenting their entire presence.
If they overstepped even slightly, we'd have proof.
Around hour three, I was in the security office reviewing footage when something on the exterior cameras caught my attention.
A man with professional camera equipment standing at the edge of the crowd that had gathered outside. Not FBI—they were all inside.
Just one man. Filming deliberately. Systematically. Getting clear shots of federal agents. Of evidence being carried out. Of everything happening.
Cold dread flooded through me.
"Who is that?" I asked, zooming in on his face.
My security chief looked at the screen. "Unknown. Want me to send someone?"
"Yes. Grab him. Bring him inside. I want to know who he is and what he's filming."
Two of my security team went outside. I watched on the monitors as they approached the man.
He saw them coming. Packed up his equipment with practiced efficiency. Disappeared into the crowd before they could reach him.
Shit.
"Get me a clear shot of his face," I ordered. "Best quality you can."
The tech enhanced the image. Pulled a clear facial shot from when the man had been setting up his camera.
I stared at the face on the screen.
Mid-twenties. Sharp features. Intense eyes. Professional equipment. Deliberate documentation.
I'd never seen him before. But something about his methodical approach to filming suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Run facial recognition," I said. "I want to know who he is."
***