Chapter 41
GIANNI
"Mr. Russo, I'm going to ask you one more time. Do you have knowledge of any financial transactions conducted through Russo Industries subsidiaries that were designed to conceal their origin or destination?"
“Attorney.”
"Your attorney has been contacted. In the meantime—"
"In the meantime, I have nothing to say."
The interrogation room is the standard FBI affair. It’s windowless, with aggressive fluorescent lighting and a metal table bolted to the floor—a table part of me wants to rip out and throw against the observation window behind me.
I flick my gaze to the camera in the corner recording everything, then turn my attention to the agent seated across from me. He’s mid-forties, square-jawed, and competent. And he’s not Dawson. His name is Harwell, and I can tell he’d rather be working any case but this.
I rub my wrists, which are still raw and red from the handcuffs.
“Need a Band-Aid?” Harwell asks, his eyes on my wrists.
I snort. “No. Just a lawyer.”
Truth is I don’t give a damn about the pain or the warrant or the raid or the lawyer, for that matter. I’m thinking about Violet.
Where the hell is she?
Harwell opens a folder. Photographs— financial documents, corporate filings, surveillance shots of me entering buildings, meeting with associates. It’s the goddamn greatest hits of Lance Dawson's investigation, laid out like a hand of cards.
"We have evidence of wire transfers totaling fourteen million dollars moving through three shell companies connected to Russo Industries," Harwell says. "We have testimony from a cooperating witness placing you at meetings with known Camorra associates. And we have documentation—"
The door opens and Anthony Ferrara walks in first, wreathed in his usual calm authority. Behind him, carrying a USB hard drive in one hand and a stack of printouts in the other, is Kylie Franks.
She has a strange, tense expression on her face. I get the impression instantly that she has something big.
"Agent Harwell," Ferrara says, setting his briefcase on the table. "I'm Mr. Russo's attorney. Before we proceed, I need to present evidence that fundamentally undermines the basis for this raid, this detention, and this investigation."
Harwell looks at Kylie. "Who is she?"
"A consulting forensic analyst retained by my client's legal team," Ferrara says, which is technically true. "Ms. Franks has uncovered material I believe requires immediate review."
Kylie sets the hard drive on the table, opens the printouts, and starts talking.
“Agent Lance Dawson, lead investigator on the case, has been in direct communication with David Marino for a minimum of eleven weeks.” She places a printout on the table.
“These are encrypted messages exchanged through a private server Marino and his crew use for internal comms.”
Harwell leans in. “These were accessed with a personal device,” he says, staring at the printout and putting it all together. “He didn’t want the Bureau to see any of this.”
“The content of these messages,” Kylie continues, “include discussions about undermining Gianni’s business operations. He timed everything with federal actions, using a civilian named Theresa Randolph as an intelligence asset.
"Shit," I say.
Kylie looks at me. "She was feeding information to both Marino and Dawson. Meeting schedules, security protocols, your home address, Violet's routine. Her communications with Dawson go back six weeks."
Before the hospital. That means the beating was real—Marino really did hit her.
But why… I can only guess. What I can assume is that the performance afterwards was a goddamn show.
The tears, the confession, the perfectly timed details—it was all for the purpose of regaining my trust. And getting me to let my guard down.
I clench my fists and unclench them before Harwell notices.
"A tracker was legally installed on her car while she was in the hospital.
Spyware on her phone and email was active within twenty-four hours of her discharge.
Everything she's sent and received since then is documented here.
" She taps the hard drive. "Including her communication with Dawson on the morning of this raid, confirming the timing and confirming that Violet Wolfe would be in the building. "
The room is quiet. Harwell is looking at the printouts with a neutral expression that is taking every last bit of restraint he has to maintain.
“Dawson,” he says. Just the name, nothing else.
"There's more," Kylie says. "Agent Dawson's case files contain evidence irregularities dating back three years across multiple investigations.
Evidence logs that don't match chain-of-custody records.
Witness statements modified after initial filing.
In two cases, probable cause affidavits that cite evidence which demonstrably did not exist at the time the affidavits were signed. "
She places the final stack on the table. Whatever it is, it’s going to be devastating.
Ferrara steps forward; this was his cue.
“That’s the warrant used to authorize today’s raid,” he begins.
“And if you haven’t yet put it together, Agent Harwell, this was obtained using evidence and testimony that originated from an illegal conspiracy between a federal agent, a crime syndicate leader, and a planted corporate asset. ”
He pauses for a moment, letting Harwell wrap his mind around his new reality. “You’re familiar with the fruit of the poisonous tree doctrine, I assume?”
Harwell sighs, sits back, and nods his head. “Of course, I am. Means every goddamn piece of evidence collected during this raid is tainted. Hell, the warrant itself is invalid.” He reaches for his phone. "I need to speak with my supervisor.”
"I'd recommend it," Ferrara replies. "I'd also recommend attempting to contact Agent Dawson. Given that the evidence presented here implicates a federal officer in criminal conspiracy, he should be notified immediately and suspended pending internal review."
Harwell dials and waits, his jaw tightening. "Dawson's not answering."
He dials a different number. There’s a brief conversation and then he hangs up, his expression darkening. "His badge hasn't been scanned at any federal facility since oh-seven-hundred this morning," Harwell says. "His Bureau phone is off and his personal phone is going to voicemail."
The room shifts, Harwell processing it all and slowly realizing that the agent who built this case and pushed for the raid has gone dark. The biggest FBI operation in years, one they were certain would end with me in a cell, is falling apart before his eyes.
I stand. “Take off the cuffs.”
Harwell hesitates, looking nervously at the printouts, then Ferrara, then me. His gaze finally lands on the hard drive.
Kylie leans forward and takes it. “This hard drive contains all the receipts assembled and collated for your reading pleasure.”
"Agent Harwell," Ferrara says quietly. "My client has been illegally detained on the basis of a fraudulent warrant obtained through criminal conspiracy.
Every minute he remains in this room compounds the Bureau's liability.
I strongly recommend you release him immediately and begin the process of internal review before this situation becomes significantly more embarrassing for your office. "
Silence ticks by. For a long moment, I find myself wondering if the good agent is going to cut his losses and do the right thing, or if he’s going to dig himself, and the Bureau, deeper.
Harwell nods toward the camera. The interrogation room doors open, and a pair of agents enter. One of them undoes my cuffs, the other guides me out of the room. Ferrara and Kylie form up at my sides, and together we walk through the back halls and then the lobby of the FBI’s New York field office.
I can’t help but grin a little as we step out into the fresh air, the agents going back inside without a single word.
The legal foundation of the entire case just collapsed, and the field office went from thinking they were about to take me down to realizing I have them in the palm of my hand over the course of about ten minutes.
Ferrara approaches his car as the driver pulls up to the curb. “I’ll make sure this bullshit gets taken care of,” he says, opening the door. “They’re going to want it buried, but I’m not going to let them until we’ve extracted some decent concessions.”
I nod. Ferrara slips into his car and is soon gone.
Spackman pulls up just behind him, reading my face as I open the door for Kylie.
"Clean?" he asks.
"Clean." I turn to Kylie. "Violet. Where is she?"
Kylie already has her phone out. She's pulling up a tracking interface she installed on Violet's phone weeks ago, with Violet's knowledge, a safety measure that seemed excessive at the time and now feels like the only thing standing between us and catastrophe.
"Her signal died in the alley beside the building," Kylie says. "Forty-seven minutes ago. Phone's either off or destroyed."
"CCTV," Spackman says. He's already moving, pulling up the security feeds from the parking structure next door on his tablet. He scrubs backward through the footage—the raid, the chaos, agents flooding the lobby—and then finds it.
The fire escape door. Violet coming out, moving fast, her bag over her shoulder. Behind her, Theresa. They stop in the alley. Violet turns. And then Lance appears.
I watch him take her arm. I watch her try to pull away. I watch Theresa lean against the wall with her arms crossed, watching. And then they move out of frame —Lance, Violet, and a second man I don't recognize—and the alley is empty.
The timestamp reads 10:47 a.m. Fifty-three minutes ago.
I stare at the screen. The image is frozen on the empty alley, the fire escape door swinging shut, Theresa standing alone with her arms still crossed.
Something tears inside my chest. It’s not anger and not fear. It’s something deeper. It’s the horrible realization that the woman I love is in danger.
Violet’s gone, Lance has her, and every moment I spend standing in this parking lot is a second she’s alone with a man who wants to do her harm.
"Spackman." My voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds like something being pulled from the wreckage. "Find her. Now. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs."
I turn to Kylie. "Theresa's tracker. Where is she?"
Kylie checks. "Moving south on the FDR. She's in her car."
"Then we start with her."