Page 76 of Shadow Of Sin

“They’re connected,” I say. “Dmitri and Hoxha. They’re not two separate problems. They’re the same damn problem.”

Wolfe’s thumb stops tapping. Dead still.

“Keep pulling,” he mutters.

A few minutes later, I find it.

Not a shell corporation. Not a transaction log. A file. A plain, simple file in Dmitri’s records, labeled with a name I’d recognize anywhere.

Moreno, S.

Sal.

I click it and balk at the contents. My brother’s name, his restaurant, his debts, his daily schedule. And the date on the file is from ten months ago. Six months before I got out of prison.

Two months before.

Dmitri had a file on my brother while I was still locked up. He was watching Sal, tracking him, documenting his schedule, his debts, his habits. Setting up the play before I ever walked out of those prison gates.

“Eva.” Wolfe sees my face. “What did you find?”

I turn the laptop toward him. He reads it. I watch his jaw clench harder with each second that ticks past.

“He didn’t stumble onto me,” I say. “He found Sal first. He targeted him on purpose and had his people lend Sal the money knowing it would put a leash around my brother’s neck. So when I got out of prison, the trap was already built.”

My voice is climbing but I can’t bring it down.

“I wasn’t recruited. I was built. He picked Sal because Sal had a sister with a specific skillset. He had the Albanians lend Sal the money knowing it would put us both in his chokehold.”

I shove back from the desk and shoot up from the chair on wobbly legs. I grab onto the wall before I crumple to the floor.

“The debt that crushed my brother. The debt that you paid forty-two-thousand dollars to erase.” My throat is so tight I can barely squeeze out the words. “Dmitri’s people created it on purpose. The whole thing was manufactured to get to me.”

I walk to the window and press my forehead against the glass. The street is dark and quiet, the fucking lamp overhead flickering like a taunt. My heart clenches. I hate how normal it looks because nothing about my life has been normal since the night our parents died.

Why should I have expected anything different? Ever?

“I was the weapon,” I whisper into the darkness. “The whole goddamn time. And I didn’t even know I was being loaded.”

Wolfe doesn’t cross the room. He doesn’t rush to fix it or to soothe me. He stands up and waits. Because that’s what he does when I need space. He’s patient. He’s there. He doesn’t push.

And I hate that about him right now because I want someone to push against. I want to be angry at someone who’s in this room instead of at a man in an expensive coat who smiles while he ruins lives.

“He built me,” I say to the window. “He identified the skill, found the right pressure point, and created the circumstances that he knew I’d never refuse. By the time he showed up at my door, I didn’t have a choice.”

“You had a choice,” Wolfe says from across the room. “You chose Sal.”

“That wasn’t a choice. It was a trap. Always a fucking trap.”

“You’re right. It was a trap.” He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Dmitri spent months setting it up. The Albanians, the debt, the timing. He engineered a situation where your only answer would ever be yes.”

I slowly turn toward him. “So why doesn’t that make me feel better?”

“Because knowing you were manipulated doesn’t undo the fact that it worked. And you’re not the kind of person who forgives herself for being played.”

I close my eyes, a sharp hiss of breath escaping my lips. He’s right. He’s always right. And the worst part is he says it without judgment or pity. He says it as it is…just a fact.

“Come here,” I say, reaching for him.