Page 238 of Rosetti Family New York
It should make me want to run. It should make me pull away, put the gloves back on, rebuild all the walls I've spent years reinforcing. But instead, I find myself holding her hand tighter, letting her warmth seep into skin that hasn't felt another's touch in too long.
This is dangerous. More dangerous than any job I've ever done, any fight I've ever fought. Because if I let her in, if I let myself believe she could accept all of me, and then she leaves...
I'm not sure I could put the gloves back on again.
25
Sloane
Istand in one of the Rosetti mansion's studies, where floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves line the walls, a deep burgundy Persian rug muffles our footsteps, and heavy velvet drapes block out the afternoon sun except for a single brass desk lamp casting a warm pool of light over a scarred oak writing table. Two high-backed leather chairs flank the desk, and an oil painting of a stern Rosetti ancestor watches us from above the fireplace.
Emilio hunches over the cluttered desk, his fingers flying across the keyboard of his laptop, the screen casting a blue glow on his face. Rafe and I stand close by, our eyes glued to the monitor as Emilio navigates through rows of numbers and transactions.
"Anything yet?" Rafe asks, tension lacing his voice.
Emilio shakes his head, muttering, "Just the usual deposits and withdrawals, nothing suspicious."
He finally leans back, running a hand through his hair, and we all let out a collective sigh, shoulders sagging in disappointment.
"I was sure we'd find something on Ethan Reyes," I say, frustration creeping into my tone.
But the bank accounts reveal nothing out of the ordinary.
"Just the standard Red Hooks dimwit who smokes and snorts every penny he comes across," Emilio says.
"Have you looked into our own accounts?" Rafe asks. "How does the fighting ring money flow on our end?"
"The system's complex," Emilio explains, pointing to the screen. "Money moves from the betting operation through a series of shell companies. First the restaurant supply business in Jersey, then the real estate holding company in Delaware, finally through the investment firm in the Caymans before coming back clean."
"Our usual laundering route," Rafe notes.
"Exactly," Emilio nods. Most of our operations are compartmentalized. Only upper management has access to the full financial pipeline. Nothing strange going on there."
I watch them, fascinated by this glimpse into their world's mechanics.
"The Callahans handle their own washing through their waste management contracts with the city," Emilio continues. "Five boroughs, thirty-year contracts worth millions in legitimate revenue. Perfect cover for moving dirty money. But again, no links to who's skimming from the ring."
Suddenly, a thought sparks in my brain.
"Wait, what was it your dad used to say?" I ask, feeling a rush of possibility.
Emilio looks at Rafe, a corner of his mouth quirking up.
"Make sure you bury the bodies," he says, his tone half-joking.
"Wear gloves. Leave no trace," Rafe chimes in with a wicked grin.
Jesus, who are these men? What a family.
"No," I insist. "Something about banks or wallets or something."
"If you want the crook, follow his book," the two brothers say together, the words perfectly synced.
"Yes!" I say, my voice rising with excitement. "Right. So maybe we've been looking at the wrong person."
Emilio's eyes meet mine, the understanding passing between us in a single quick glance.
"Can you look into Maddy's accounts?" I half-ask, half-demand, the urgency clawing at my insides.
