Page 141 of Stolen Vows

That discovery is circumstantial at best. I push deeper. I need more.

A minute later, I hit the motherlode. There was a red kill folder buried deep in the recesses of the computer. Dozens and dozens of files on their clients and their targets, perfectly laid out on who paid what and when.

It’s insane and risky and fucking thorough.

My eyes widen as I scroll through the contents of the folder. It’s all here. A verifiable roadmap of Blackwire Collective’s entire operation. Client names, targets, payouts, attack vectors. It’s meticulously organized and damning as hell.

A few names jump out at me immediately. Biotech startups on the cusp of major breakthroughs. Green energy companies poised to disrupt the fossil fuel industry. Tech giants with their fingers in classified government contracts. All of them victims of crippling ransomware attacks in the months leading up to buyouts or corporate takeovers.

Eighty percent of them were ordered by Baldini Holdings.

It’s a smoking gun.

My pulse is a slow, steady roar in my ears as understanding dawns on me like a bucket of cold water. I reach for my phone and call Francesca.

It rings, and rings, and rings. Her voicemail picks up, her cheery voice asking me why I’m calling and not texting her.

I hang up and try again. She doesn’t answer.

Me: Call me. It’s important.

I stare at my phone. Five whole minutes. A reasonable amount of time to wait before assuming the worst. Five minutes pass without a response. My stomach turns to stone.

I don’t move for five whole minutes. It’s a reasonable amount of time to give her before I let myself spiral into full-blown panic. I simply stare at the screen, breathing slowly through my nose.

When my phone remains silent, an icy fist of dread clenches around my heart. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones, a certainty that sits like lead in my gut.

Francesca always answers me. Always. Even if it’s just to tell me she’s busy, that she’ll call me back later.

But not this time. This time, there’s only silence.

The air in my office turns thick and stifling, pressing down on me like a physical weight. It’s time to move.

My fingers are already moving before the thought finishes.

Me: I’m coming

I close my laptop and set it next to me on the couch. Romeo lifts his head, eyes tracking my movements like he can feel the shift in the air too.

“Alright, boy, time to go visit Uncle Beau. I’ve gotta go get our girl.”

I throw on clothes and get Romeo’s stuff together in record time. I shove the bag shut and clip his leash on, barely pausing to scratch behind his ears before heading toward the door. He trots at my heels, tail wagging like we’re just going for a walk. Like nothing’s wrong.

I wish I could say the same.

In fifteen minutes, I’m knocking on Beau’s door through the shared apartment. I don’t have time to walk out of my house and go to his front door like this is just some chat. I keep every part of me locked down tight, operating on pure instinct.

My brother opens the door with a frown. “Why are you pounding on my door at ten o’clock at night?”

I hold up Romeo’s leash. “Can you watch him?”

Beau’s eyes flick to the dog, then back to me. “Not answering my question.”

My jaw flexes. I don’t have time for this. “Can you watch him or not?”

Something shifts in Beau’s expression. The easy, laid-back energy he usually radiates sharpens. He studies me, his grip tightening on the edge of the doorframe.

Beau studies me. “You in trouble?”

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