Page 94 of Viper’s Reign

When I look up, he’s smiling. I let myself match it.

“I’m fucking in.” Finally.

38

DIMITRI

It takes hours to sift through everything I now have access to.

Hours where the lies slowly unravel, where pieces click together one by one, until Daniel Salvi’s life—past and present—is laid bare in front of me like an early Christmas gift.

He did lose his father in the shootout between my family and the Marinos back when we were still actively at war with each other. But that’s the only thread of truth in his entire campaign. He painted his father as some loving martyr the world never should have lost, when the man was a fucking deadbeat. Daniel and his mother were beyond lucky to lose the fucker. We fucking did them a favor.

A little digging through Daniel’s own files is all it takes to prove it. Because of his former position as a U.S. attorney, he had the power to erase records and replace them with whatever version of events suited him. He wanted to be mayor, and he wasn’t going to let the past get in the way of his ambitions.

Eventually, I find references to an anonymous sponsor who reached out shortly before he announced his mayoral campaign. Fifty million dollars was wired to him through a social welfare organization claiming the donor wished to remain anonymous.

A day later, he received an email containing a carefully curated manifesto naming my family and the Marinos as the primary targets of his campaign. The goal of the manifesto and this unknown sponsor couldn’t be clearer—eradicate both families.

I dig deeper, chasing every lead I can find, but whoever this sponsor is, he’s incredibly careful… and apparently powerful too. Someone with an unbelievable amount of money and the resources to bury every trail leading back to him.

For now, I set the mystery aside. It’s information I can find later. What I need right now is proof that Daniel was the one who sent Grace after me.

That’s when I stumble onto a gold mine.

A dark chuckle escapes me as I listen to audio recordings, replay old CCTV footage, and comb through deleted text messages. Every file adds another nail to Daniel’s coffin. The random kidnappings of our men and Marino’s men were all part of a calculated strategy to thin our numbers and leave both families vulnerable.

The explosion at that warehouse? That was him, too.

The moment he saw the operation was about to be exposed, he ordered one of his men to throw the grenade. Destroy the evidence that the building held simply by existing—and if my brothers and I happened to die in the blast, even better.

He must have been disappointed when we survived.

The audacity to try pinning that crime on us.

“What the fuck,” Noah breathes behind me, having moved to read over my shoulder once I told him I was in.

And there’s so much more.

Money laundering. Bribery. Tax evasion. Fake charities funneling money into funding a new organization that’s scheduled to unleash a wave of violent crimes across the city next month under the Petrov and Marino names. Properties purchased under Russian and Italian aliases to strengthen the illusion that we’re behind it all.

Then I find information Grace would give anything to hear. One of the properties lists an M. Wilson there, and I know without a doubt it’s Millicent, Grace’s friend.

Just when I think I’ve uncovered the full extent of Daniel’s depravity, I find even more. Manslaughter. The men who died after the warehouse explosion? They were killed on his orders to cover his dirty ass.

“For such an upright politician determined to rid New York of crime, he’s remarkably comfortable getting his own hands dirty,” Noah murmurs.

“That’s the hypocritical nature of men,” I reply, not missing the irony. We’re criminals ourselves, but that’s beside the point. We’ve never pretended to be anything else.

I now have more than enough to keep Daniel behind bars for the rest of his pathetic life. Enough to earn him a thousand different deaths at the hands of my family and the Marinos.

He’s been careful—I’ll give him that.

Nothing was waiting for me in one neat little file. No, I had to build the case myself, pulling fragments from his conversations, text messages, movements around the city, and even the people his driver spoke to. It took the better part of the day to fit every piece into place, but it’s worth every fucking second.

The evidence is ironclad. There’s no way for him to wiggle out of this, no lie clever enough to explain it away. I have him well and truly trapped, and the best part is that he has no idea what’s coming.

“When is his next scheduled interview?” I ask Noah, who understands where my mind is going.