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“Bennett,” I answer, moving toward the trees for privacy.
“Cole.” The voice is older, refined, with a faint Italian accent. “Giovanni Borsellini.”
My grip tightens. The head of the Borsellini crime family. The man whose organization Molly was about to destroy with her testimony.
“How did you get this number?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“We have mutual acquaintances,” Giovanni says smoothly. “People who understand that what happened last night benefits no one.”
I remain silent, waiting.
“This ends now,” Giovanni continues. “Too many bodies. Too much attention.”
“Alessio is dead,” I state flatly. “Molly put a bullet in him when he came for her. Your organization is done. The FBI has her evidence now. It’s over.”
A heavy sigh travels across the connection. “He was impulsive. Killing federal witnesses, attacking federal agents. Bad for business.”
“And now?”
“Now I have a mess to clean up,” Giovanni says. “The woman’s testimony isn’t worth the cost of more bloodshed. The family is... realigning priorities.”
Translation: they’re cutting their losses.
“She lives her life. We live ours. Separate paths,” Giovanni continues. “But understand this: if she ever surfaces again, this arrangement ends.”
“She won’t,” I assure him. “As far as the world’s concerned, she died in last night’s attack.”
“A wise decision,” Giovanni says. “For the both of you.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a moment before slipping it back into my pocket. It’s not trust; it’s business. The Borsellini family can’t afford the heat that would come from continuing to hunt a federal witness. Too much exposure, too much risk to their operations.
When I walk back to the cabin, Molly is awake, wrapped in a blanket on the porch, a steaming cup of coffee between her hands. She looks different this morning, steadier, more certain. Surviving changes you. The question is whether it hardens you or hollows you out. The girl I first met would never have accepted this kind of justice. This woman simply watches me approach, her gaze steady, unflinching, no longer searching for easy answers in a world that offers none.
“Giovanni Borsellini?” she asks.
“News travels fast.”
“Jayce mentioned the call.” She takes a sip of coffee. “So it’s really over?”
“It’s over.” I cover her hand with mine. “They’re backing off. Your financial evidence against the Borsellini operation is already with Agent Davis, the only prosecutor not on Alessio’s payroll.”
I feel her fingers tense beneath mine.
“So justice still gets served,” she almost whispers, “just not the way I planned. The evidence chain is still intact; the financial records still lead back to Giovanni. It’s a different courtroom, but the outcome is the same.”
“The Borsellini organization will go down,” I confirm. “Your evidence is too solid, and now they’ve lost their inside man. The convictions are all but guaranteed.”
“And me?”
“Come with me,” I say, standing and offering my hand. “There’s something I need to show you.”
She follows me inside to where I lay out documents on the kitchen table. Passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, social security cards, all with unfamiliar names but familiar faces.
“Millie and Finn Taylor,” I explain, watching her face as she examines the passport bearing her photograph. “Married three years ago in a small ceremony in Vermont. High school sweethearts who reconnected. He works in private security consulting. She teaches literature at community colleges wherever they move.”
Her fingers trace the gold-stamped eagle on the passport cover, lingering over the unfamiliar name. “You had these ready before I chose you.”
