Chapter 6 #2
None of them have useful information beyond confirming that Zima disappeared during the attack and his absence left a hole in our defensive coverage that Connor’s men almost exploited.
By the time I’m done interrogating everyone, I’m exhausted and pissed off and my side hurts like hell from the gunshot graze that I still haven’t bothered to get properly looked at.
Dante and I retreat to my office on the second floor. It’s quieter here, away from the basement and the smell of fear.
I pour myself three fingers of whiskey and down half of it in one swallow, feeling the burn but not caring.
Someone betrayed me.
They sold out my location, my security protocols, my defensive positions to Connor fucking Brennan.
They put my entire operation at risk.
They put my men’s lives at risk.
And they’re going to die screaming for it when I find them.
“The financial trail,” I say, settling into my chair and wincing at the pain in my side. “What did you find?”
Dante pulls out his tablet again. He projects the information onto the screen on my wall—numbers and account names and transaction records that look like gibberish to me.
“The payment to Zima came through three shell companies,” he explains, using a stylus to highlight relevant sections. “Standard money laundering setup. Each company leads to another company, which leads to another account. But our guy is good—he found a thread.”
“And?” I lean forward, impatient.
“One of the shell companies has ties to Corsican operations.” Dante zooms in on a specific account, and I see his brows furrow. “This one here. It’s registered in Marseille, but the signatory addresses trace back to New York. Specifically, to known Corsican syndicate operations in Manhattan.”
I sit up straighter, forgetting about the pain for a moment. “Corsican? Why the fuck would Corsicans be helping Connor Brennan?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dante sets down the stylus and looks at me, his brown eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Corsicans don’t typically involve themselves in Irish–Italian conflicts. They have their own territories and operations. They don’t usually pick sides.”
“Unless someone’s paying them to,” I say, thinking out loud. My mind is racing, trying to piece together what this means. “Connor could have hired them to facilitate the information gathering. Neutral third party, makes sense if he didn’t want to approach Zima directly.”
“Possible.” Dante’s tone suggests he doesn’t buy it, and he taps the screen again. “But the payment amount is interesting. Zima got paid fifty thousand dollars for the information.”
“That’s standard for this kind of betrayal.” I’m not seeing his point yet.
“Yes, but the Corsican syndicate moved two million dollars through this account in the same week.” Dante is matter-of-fact, but I can see the frustration in his face. “That’s a lot more than a finder’s fee for connecting Connor with a traitor.”
The number hits me like a punch.
Two million dollars.
That’s not payment for a single piece of information.
“They’re not just selling information,” I realize. “They’re involved in something else. Something bigger that we don’t know about yet.”
“That would be my conclusion, yes.” Dante closes his tablet with more force than necessary and looks at me over his glasses, his expression grim. “The question is what. And why are they interested in your conflict with Connor Brennan.”
“Keep digging,” I tell him, my jaw clenched. “I want to know which Corsican family and what their angle is. I want to know every person who touched that money and where it came from originally.”
“I’ll have more information by tomorrow.” Dante stands to leave then pauses and turns back, his expression shifting to something that might be concern. “How is Emma?”
The question catches me off guard and I feel my defenses go up. “She’s fine. She wasn’t hurt.”
“That’s not what I asked, Leo.” Dante’s voice is quiet but firm.
“She’s fine,” I repeat, my irritation spiking. What does he want me to say? “I checked on her after the attack. She wasn’t hurt. Just shaken up.”
“And you told her about the traitor.” It’s not a question, and there’s something in his tone I don’t like.
“She needed to know why the attack failed and why her father couldn’t get to her.” I meet his eyes, daring him to challenge me on this. “She accused me of thinking she somehow contacted Connor despite being locked in a room.”
“Could she have?” Dante asks, his eyebrow raised slightly.
“No.” I’m one hundred percent certain of that, and the question pisses me off. “We’ve monitored everything. No phone, no internet, no communication with the guards. Emma didn’t facilitate this. Zima sold us out independently.”
Dante nods slowly, his expression still concerned in a way that’s starting to irritate me. “What’s your plan now? Connor knows where she is. He’ll try again.”
“He can try.” The words come out harder than I intend, my frustration bleeding through. “We’ve reinforced the perimeter, doubled the guards, and now we know to look for traitors. He won’t get through a second time.”
“And Emma?” Dante presses, and I can hear the edge in his voice now. “How long are you planning to keep her?”
It’s the same fucking question he keeps asking me and it’s the same question my mother asked.
I still don’t have a good answer, and I’m tired of being asked.
“As long as it takes,” I snap.