Chapter 12
MARCO
Idropped my keys onto the hook by the door and shoved it shut behind me with my foot. One shoe came off neatly by the wall, while the other ended up sideways, halfway across the floor.
When I made it to the kitchen, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and twisted the cap off the top. I took a long drink before setting it down on the counter.
Then my eyes went to the file.
It was right where I’d left it. Sitting at the edge of the counter like it was waiting for me to give a damn. I’d told myself all week it didn’t matter, that I didn’t care.
But I hadn’t thrown it out, had I? That said enough.
I picked it up, flipped it open, the corner of the cover curling under my thumb.
Her name was at the top of the first page: Valentina De La Vega.
Contrary to what the woman thought, I wasn’t stalking her. I’d taken the file Max had left on his desk—the one his PI handed to him. I didn’t like that he was having her followed. I thought it was an invasion of her privacy, and that wasn’t some moral stand—I just didn’t see the point.
Valentina was going to make mistakes. Let her. We didn’t need a file to know she was teetering on the edge.
Apparently, Max thought otherwise.
Still, much as I didn’t like it, I’d been itching to read the damn thing. I wasn’t sure what that said about me.
I’d seen it on Max’s desk for over a week. It had caught my attention every time I walked past it, and despite myself, I wanted to know what information it held on her.
I told myself it was professional curiosity; that knowing who I was dealing with wasn’t unusual. And maybe it wasn’t, but this? This felt different. Almost like I was looking for something specific, even if I wasn’t sure what it was.
The first page was standard. Name. Background.
A bullet-point list of everything she’d done to land her in this position.
Mistakes, bad decisions, debts she’d never dig herself out of.
If Max had been trying to prove she was a liability, he’d succeeded.
The Callahans. The drinking. The absolute lack of self-preservation. She ticked every box.
The Callahan connection was bolded, as if whoever had typed this up knew it was the headline Max would care most about.
Valentina’s past wasn’t a tragedy, it was an endless cycle of chaos she’d willingly spun herself into.
Debt collectors listed with bold red numbers.
Debts bigger than most people’s mortgages.
A reckless marriage to a man who’d been found dead under . . . suspicious circumstances.
I flipped the file open again, my attention catching on the date of birth typed neatly in the top corner.
She was twenty-two.
The number felt wrong somehow. She was too young. Too young for the husband who’d left her drowning in debt. Too young for the chaos she surrounded herself with and the kind of trouble that ended with your name in a file on Max Romano’s desk.
At twenty-two, I’d barely figured out who I was beyond a uniform and a set of orders. I had no excuse for reading through a report on a woman a decade younger than me. No justification beyond idle curiosity and my habit of overstepping.
The age gap sat wrong with me, adding another layer of discomfort I didn’t want to examine closely. What the hell was I doing, standing here late at night digging through Valentina’s past as if I had any right to judge her?
I turned the page roughly, eyes landing on details I wasn’t sure I should know.
Awards she’d gotten in high school—academic achievements, art scholarships, recognition for talents that painted a very different picture from the woman I’d seen struggling at José’s bodega.
She’d earned a full ride to a decent college in Jersey, which she’d dropped out of after just a semester.
Family details came next. Her mother was ill—something I knew from bits and pieces overheard from Max. Her father was listed too but marked as absent. A deadbeat dad who clearly hadn’t stuck around to help. I wondered briefly if he was part of the reason she’d ended up marrying Cillian.
I snapped the file shut and tossed it back onto the counter as if it had burned me.
None of this was my business. Not her awards, not her college scholarship, not her absent father.
She may be young, but I was old enough to know better.
I should’ve thrown the damn file away the second I took it.
But I didn’t.
I’d done far worse things than read a file that wasn’t mine—things that wouldn’t just cross moral lines but erase them completely. And yet, for some reason, this felt different. Smaller, sure, but also . . . personal.
It wasn’t like I cared about Valentina. I didn’t. Not beyond the fact she was Max’s problem and, by extension, a potential problem for me.
But there was something about the file that nagged at me.
A man like me, second-guessing something so simple. I’d held classified documents in my hands without batting an eye. I’d destroyed evidence, signed off on deals that could bury men my size, and walked away without a scratch.
But a file on a woman who wasn’t even my responsibility?
That had me hesitating.
Opening it felt like admitting something I didn’t want to name.
And I didn’t do well with things I couldn’t name.
It didn’t matter how I sat in this damn plastic chair—it wasn’t comfortable. It creaked under my weight as I settled into it.
Diego, one of Max’s lower-tier guys, was slouched with his arms crossed, face bruised and swollen. Max stood by the door. He wasn’t pacing or glaring. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to make Diego squirm.
“I’m going to ask once,” I said, my voice breaking the silence. “How did they get the information?”
Diego glanced at Max, then at me. I noticed the tick in his jaw. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” I repeated, leaning forward slightly. “That’s funny, because the Feds do. They know everything—dates, times, locations. They have your phone records, Diego. Your calls, your texts, your browser history.”
His eyes widened just enough to give him away.
“You think this is a game?” Max’s voice cut through mine.
Diego swallowed hard, shrinking under Max’s scrutiny.
“Someone tapped your phone,” I continued. “The question is, was it you?”
“What? No!” Diego snapped, sitting up straighter, like he had a pole on his back. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t say anything.”
“Then how do they know?” I asked.
His forehead started to sweat as if we were on the opposite end of this deal. As if we were the ones interrogating him. Diego shook his head. His hands clenched into fists on the table with a bang.
“I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t my phone. Maybe it was someone else.”
“You think I’m stupid?” Max intervened, his anger bordering on fury. “You think I don’t know who I hire? You’re sloppy, Diego. Always have been. So tell me, what the fuck were you thinking?”
I saved him the effort. “You called your girlfriend last week. Told her you were in over your head. Ring a bell?”
Diego froze, his face paling.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “She’s working with the Feds, Diego. Whether you know it or not, you’ve been compromised.”
“I didn’t know. I swear, Max, I didn’t know—”
Max turned away. Diego shrank back into his chair. It was funny, seeing a grown man look like nothing but a child. Maybe he was.
“Swearing doesn’t fix this,” Max complained. “What it does do is piss me off. You let your personal life bleed into business. Now we’ve got a goddamn problem.”
Diego opened his mouth, but no words came out. Again.
“This isn’t just a ‘problem.’ It’s an entry point,” I added.
Max turned to me with his eyes narrowed.
I continued. “The Feds don’t need much to start building a case. Just one thread. One text. One phone call. You know what happens next? They pull on it. They follow it to everything connected to you, and by the time you realize how far they’ve gone, they’re already wrapping it around your neck.”
Max’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting to Diego, who was the problem. “Do they have anything concrete?”
“Not yet,” I said. “If they did, Diego wouldn’t be sitting here with us. But they’ve got enough to watch, which means every move we make from now on is under a microscope.”
“I didn’t know!” Diego blurted again. “I didn’t think—”
“That’s the problem,” I interrupted, tired of how he looped our conversations. “You didn’t think. You’re out here making calls to someone you thought you could trust, and now you’ve painted a target on everyone in this room.”
Diego’s face paled further.
Max looked at me. “And now what?”
“Any loose ends—people, paper trails, anything they could follow—we cut them off now. No more communication outside encrypted channels. No more reckless moves.”
Diego’s shoulders hunched even further. “I-I won’t be reckless anymore,” he begged.
I glanced at Max, arching an eyebrow. “Does he know anything other than the laundering?”
Max shook his head. “No. He’s small-time. I kept him on a short leash for a reason.”
I nodded slowly, my focus drifting back to Diego. “That makes this easier. If he doesn’t know anything, we have options.”
Diego’s eyes darted between us. “Options? What does that mean? I can keep quiet—I will! I swear!”
I ignored him, my focus still on Max. “I could leave him in here. Not posting bail would make it look like we have no connections to him.
“Or?” Max asked.
“Or,” I continued before Diego could cut me off with another plea, “if you wanted to risk things, I could get him out. And then you could kill him.”
The room went silent.
Diego’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling as his panic deepened. “Wait—wait, no! You don’t have to do that. I won’t talk. I’ll disappear. You won’t even know I’m here!”
Max didn’t look at Diego. He was still watching me. He wasn’t sure if I was serious.
Why would I joke about something like that?
Before he could give me an answer, another one of his men stepped inside holding a phone. He handed it to Max.