Page 20 of Ruthless Scar
“This one,” she says, pointing at a transaction. “Three million routed through Cyprus, then Panama, then a P.O. box that receives mail for one person.”
“Who?”
“State senator.” She pulls up a photo. A man I’ve seen on television, smiling with his family, talking about law and order. “He has a taste for young ones. The Benedettis have been supplying him for four years.”
Her voice is flat when she says it. Clinical. But her fingers pause on the keyboard. Her shoulders tighten.
More names follow. More money. The data blurs. My focus shifts to her. The furrow between her brows when she hits a wall. The muttering, fragments of code and curse words, her fingers moving faster until whatever she’s chasing surrenders. The way her lips part when she’s close. The sound she makes when she catches it. Low. Satisfied.
My grip tightens on my own arm.
Three hours in, she stretches in her chair. Rolls her neck. The movement exposes the line of her throat, and I track the motion of her pulse beneath her skin.
“Hungry?” I ask.
She blinks, like the question surprises her. Like she forgot I was here. “What?”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” She’s been running on caffeine and not much else. “Nonna Rosa left sandwiches in the kitchen.”
She stares at me. “I’ll eat later.”
“You’ll eat now.”
“Are you ordering me to eat?”
“We need your brain functioning. That requires food.”
She holds my gaze. Doesn’t back down. Doesn’t agree.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m not leaving this room. Bring me something.”
I leave. Walk to the kitchen. Make her a plate. One of Nonna Rosa’s sandwiches. Some fruit. A handful of the cookies that appeared on the counter this morning.
I’m making a woman a plate of food. I don’t make anyone food. Gia asks and I tell her to get it herself. Marco asks and I ignore him. But she asked, and I was already moving before my head caught up.
When I bring it back, she looks at the plate, then at me. “Thank you.”
I don’t respond. Return to my position by the window.
She eats while she works, one hand on the keyboard, the other bringing food to her mouth between keystrokes. Her lips close around the sandwich. Her throat moves when she swallows. She licks a crumb from the corner of her mouth without breaking stride, and my grip tightens on my forearm.
She finishes the sandwich. Ignores the fruit. Eats all the cookies.
“The buyers,” she says, pushing the empty plate aside. “This is where it gets complicated.”
Names scroll across the screen. Some I recognize. People who shake hands with mayors and donate to charities and attend galas where they pretend to care about the same victims they purchase.
She gestures at the display. “Follow the money. It never lies.”
Her chin lifts when she says it. That satisfaction. She built this. Alone, in a dark apartment, night after night. And it’s airtight.
She’s been working for hours. The light through the windows has gone golden, then orange, now fading. My office is dim around her, lit by the glow of the monitor, and in that light she looks different. The shadows under her eyes less harsh. The sharp edges of her face softer.
I move closer. Lean over her shoulder to see the screen better.
