The cardboard box sat on my kitchen table for 3 hours before I could bring myself to open it. 13 years of avoidance, packed away in my storage unit and dragged out only on nights like this when guilt noded harder than grief. Inside, my father’s handwriting stared back at me from yellowed legal pads. Case numbers I’d never understood.
Names circled in red ink that meant nothing to a 15-year-old girl who just wanted her dad to come home for dinner. Michael Collins, FBI forensic accountant. DC just spun up a multi- agency task force, Ryan added. Out of state units are leading locals compromised, won’t touch first contact. Dead at 42 in what the police called a single vehicle accident on a wet road.
Case closed before I’d finished crying at his funeral. I pulled out the thickest notebook, the one I’d only glanced at once before shoving it away. His notes from the weeks before he died were frantic. Underlined words bleeding through pages. human trafficking, offshore accounts, political connections, and one phrase repeated so many times it looked like obsession. They’re watching.
My phone buzzed against the table, the vibration loud in my silent apartment. Unknown number. I almost ignored it. Almost. The message was brief. Your father didn’t die in an accident. The truth is buried where he is. Go tonight. My hands shook as I read it twice. three times. Could have been a sick prank. Could have been someone who remembered the anniversary.
October 27th, 13 years since I became an orphan. I texted back, “Who is this?” No response. Just those two sentences glowing accusingly from my screen. Camila would tell me I was insane. My best friend had spent years trying to convince me to let it go, to stop seeing conspiracies in my father’s death.
But Camila didn’t know what I’d found in these boxes. didn’t know about the calls he’d made the week before he died. The way he’d hugged me too tight and told me he loved me three times in one day, like he was memorizing the moment. I grabbed my jacket and keys. Cedar Hill Cemetery was 40 minutes outside Portland, farther if the roads were bad. I called my aunt that night.
She cried the quiet kind of tears that sound like relief over a phone line. “Your dad would have liked him,” she said. He finally brought you home to yourself. The clock read 21:47, close to the time he died, according to the police report. 22:15, they’d estimated, late enough that no one was around to witness anything. The drive passed in a blur of street lights and second guessing.
By the time I pulled through the cemetery gates, a light drizzle had started, just enough to slick the narrow roads winding between headstones. I killed my headlights and parked behind a maintenance shed. instinct telling me to stay hidden. My father’s grave sat on a small hill beneath an oak tree.

I’d chosen the spot because he used to take me hiking in forests like this before the job consumed him, before he started coming home with shadows under his eyes and checking the locks twice every night. I made it halfway up the path before I saw them. 10 men, all in black suits despite the late hour and drizzle.
They stood in a perfect circle around my father’s headstone, still as statues, their formation too precise to be coincidental. SUVs were parked in a line along the access road, black and gleaming even in the darkness. I dropped behind a large monument, heart slamming against my ribs. This wasn’t a prank. This was real and dangerous, and I should leave, call the police, do anything except what I was doing, which was staying frozen and watching. One man stood at the head of the grave.
I couldn’t see his face, but I saw him bend down, saw him place something white on the headstone. He spoke, his voice too low to carry, but the cadence sounded foreign. Italian, maybe. When he straightened, he made a gesture and all 10 men bowed their heads in unison. It lasted maybe 30 seconds. Then, without a word, they dispersed.
Each man returned to a vehicle with military efficiency. Engines purred to life and the convoy rolled away into the night, tail lights disappearing like dying embers. I waited five full minutes, watching for movement, listening for footsteps. Nothing, just the whisper of wind through leaves and the distant hum of traffic on the highway.
The envelope sat where the man had left it, already damp from the drizzle. My father’s name was written on the front in elegant script. Michael Collins. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, the paper thick and expensive. Inside, bundled stacks of $100 bills. I didn’t count them, but I knew wealth when I saw it. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands.
And tucked between the bills, a card no bigger than my palm. The handwriting was the same as the envelope. Debt paid. Forgive me, Michael Collins. GM, you shouldn’t be here. I spun, nearly dropping the envelope. He stood less than 10 ft away, and I had no idea how he’d approached without sound. Tall, maybe 6’3, dressed in the same black suit as the others, but wearing it like a second skin.
Dark hair, olive skin, and eyes that caught what little light remained. Not blue, not quite brown, something in between that looked almost predatory in the shadows. Who are you? My voice came out steadier than I felt. I could ask you the same question. He stepped closer, moving with a fluidity that made me want to retreat. But I think I already know.
You have his eyes. The statement hit me like cold water. You knew my father. I did. He glanced at the envelope in my hands. You weren’t supposed to find that. Then you shouldn’t have left it in a public cemetery. The sarcasm came from somewhere deep. The place where fear transformed into anger.

What is this? Some kind of guilt payment? His jaw tightened. The only crack in his composed exterior. It’s what I owed him. Owed him for what? For saving my life. He said it simply, like it was fact rather than revelation. Your father was a good man. Better than me. Better than most.
was past tense acknowledgement that my father was dead and the stranger knew why. Did you kill him? No. The word was immediate, almost sharp. But I know who did. My grip on the envelope tightened. Then tell me. Not here. Not now. He reached into his jacket and I tensed, but he only pulled out a business card. Plain white embossed lettering. Giovanni Moretti. Import. Export. an address in downtown Portland.
When you’re ready to know the truth, come find me. Why should I trust you? You shouldn’t. He turned to leave, then paused. But you will because you’re a journalist. Olivia Collins, 28 years old, freelance investigative reporter living in a studio on Morrison Street.
You’ve been looking into your father’s death for 5 years. You won’t stop now. Ice flooded my veins. How do you know that? I know everything that matters. He walked toward the remaining SUV, the one I hadn’t noticed parked behind the oak tree. Before getting in, he looked back. The men who killed your father are still out there, still dangerous. If you want answers, you’ll need protection.
Think about it. The door closed with a solid thunk. The engine started and he drove away, leaving me alone with a dead man’s grave and $50,000 I didn’t understand. I stared at the card in my hand. Giovani Moretti, GM. The initials from the note. This man knew my father. Knew what happened.
And somehow, impossibly, I knew I’d be walking into his office within days because he was right about one thing. I wouldn’t stop. Not now. Not ever. Two days of obsessive Googling taught me more about Giovani Moretti than I wanted to know. His name appeared in exactly three newspaper articles over the past decade, always in the background of charity gallas or business openings. Never charged, never even questioned publicly.

But the way journalists phrased sentences around him screamed careful legal vetting. The import export company he supposedly ran had offices in six cities and a website so generic it could have been selling anything from olives to weapons. You’re not seriously considering this.
Camila stood in my kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching me compile notes like I was preparing for war. Olivia. This man could be dangerous. He knew things about my father no one else does. I circled another name in my notebook, one that appeared in both my dad’s notes and a business filing connected to Moretti’s company. The police said it was an accident.
Everyone said it was an accident. But what if they were wrong? Then go to the FBI. Go to someone official. She moved closer, her voice dropping. Don’t walk into a stranger’s office because he left money on a grave and knew your address. The $50,000 sat in my closet, still in the envelope, still unexplained. I hadn’t touched it beyond moving it from my car.
Blood money maybe, or guilt, or something worse I couldn’t name yet. I’m a journalist, Cam. This is what I do. You write exposees on corporate fraud and political corruption. You don’t investigate organized crime. She grabbed my arm, forcing me to look at her. Please just think about this.
I had thought about it for 48 hours straight through sleepless nights and coffeefueled mornings. Every rational part of my brain screamed that Camila was right. But the angry, grieving 15-year-old who’d never gotten answers kept pushing me toward that business card. I’ll be careful, I said. knowing it was a lie. The address led to a building in downtown Portland that smelled like old money and new threats.
Marble floors, art that probably cost more than my car, and a receptionist who looked like she could kill me with her letter opener if needed. She made one phone call after I gave my name, then gestured toward the elevator without a word. Fourth floor, corner office. The door was already open when I arrived.
Giovanni Moretti sat behind a desk made of dark wood that gleamed under recessed lighting. He looked different in daylight, less predator and more businessman, but the intensity in his eyes remained unchanged. Those strange dark brown eyes that seemed to catalog every detail of my appearance in the seconds it took me to cross his threshold. Miss Collins, he stood, gestured to a leather chair across from him. I wondered if you’d come. You didn’t give me much choice.

I sat, keeping my spine straight, refusing to be intimidated by the luxury surrounding me. You said you knew who killed my father. I did. He returned to his seat, steepling his fingers. But first, tell me what you know about his work. He was a forensic accountant for the FBI.
He tracked money, built cases against criminals using financial records, and the case he was working on when he died. I hesitated. My father’s notes had been vague, coded in ways I’d never fully deciphered, something involving offshore accounts, international trafficking. He was close to something big. He was close to exposing a network that spanned three countries and involved people who don’t tolerate exposure.
Giovani pulled a folder from his desk drawer, slid it across to me. 15 years ago, I was 19 years old and very stupid. My family had certain business interests. I was forced to participate in an operation I didn’t approve of. Your father was the agent investigating us. I opened the folder. Photographs of a younger Giovani, barely more than a boy, alongside surveillance reports marked with FBI headers.
My father’s signature on witness statements. He could have arrested me, Giovani continued, had evidence, testimony, everything needed to put me away for 20 years. Instead, he gave me a choice. walk away from my family’s business, build something legitimate, or face prosecution. Why would he do that? Because he saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself yet.
His voice softened fractionally. He believed people could change if given the chance. I took that chance. I flipped through more pages, seeing the progression. Giovani establishing his import business, documents showing legitimate transactions, tax records that looked clean. Then a shift. Reports about my father’s investigation into Albanian trafficking rings. Names circled.
One I recognized from his personal notes. Arban Kresniki. 2 years after your father gave me that chance, he died. Giovani’s jaw tightened. I investigated on my own. Discovered that the Albanian mafia killed him because he was about to expose their trafficking network. Politicians were involved. Police were involved. Your father was a threat. they couldn’t allow to exist. My hands shook as I read the evidence he’d compiled.
Witness statements, financial records, surveillance photos showing Kresniki’s men near the road where my father crashed. This was real. This wasn’t conspiracy or paranoia. This was murder documented and detailed. Why didn’t you take this to the authorities? Because the authorities were compromised. Half the people who should have investigated were on Krniki’s payroll. He leaned forward.
Your father asked me to protect something if anything happened to him. I didn’t know what he meant until I saw you at the cemetery. He wanted me to protect you. The revelation hit like physical impact. That message, the one telling me to go to the cemetery. Who sent it? His expression shifted. Something guarded entering his eyes. We’ll discuss that later. Right now, you need to understand something more important.
Arban Kresniki discovered that you’ve been investigating your father’s death. You’ve been asking questions, pulling old records. He knows you exist and he knows you’re a threat. Ice flooded my veins. How would he know that? Because he has people watching for anyone who shows interest in that case. You triggered alerts when you requested police reports 3 months ago.
Giovanni stood, moved to the window overlooking the city. You’re in danger, Miss Collins. Real danger. I wanted to argue to say he was exaggerating. But the weight of evidence in my lap said otherwise. What do you want from me? I want to keep you alive. It’s what your father would have wanted. You don’t owe me anything. I owe him everything. He turned back and for the first time I saw something beyond the controlled exterior. Grief maybe.
Or guilt that 15 years couldn’t erase. Let me protect you. 72 hours. That’s all I ask. give me 3 days to assess the threat and put measures in place. I should have said no. Should have walked out and gone straight to the FBI field office. But something in his voice, in the way he spoke about my father, made me believe him. 72 hours, I heard myself say.
And then you tell me everything, including who sent that message. He nodded once. My people will. The office door burst open. A man in a dark suit I recognized from the cemetery. The same military bearing. Sir, parking garage. Two men, Albanian, waiting by her car. Giovani’s transformation was instantaneous. The businessman vanished, replaced by something cold and lethal.
How many of ours? Four in position. Ryan’s with them. Get her out through the service entrance now. He looked at me. And I saw the predator again. Stay close to them. Do exactly what they say. Everything happened too fast to process.
The suited man, whose name I didn’t know, had my arm, pulling me toward a door I hadn’t noticed behind a bookshelf. Giovani was speaking rapid commands into a phone. We were in a service corridor, then a stairwell, footsteps echoing off concrete. Gunshots, distant, but unmistakable. two sharp cracks that made my heart slam against my ribs.
“Keep moving,” my escort ordered, his grip on my arm tightening. We emerged in an underground parking level I didn’t recognize. Three SUVs sat with engines running. A broad-shouldered man with gray at his temples stood by the middle vehicle. “Ryan Foster,” he said, opening the door. “You must be Olivia. Get in.” I climbed into the back seat, my hands shaking now, adrenaline flooding my system.
Ryan slid in beside me while another man took the driver’s seat. The SUV was moving before my door fully closed. What just happened? Attempted kidnapping, Ryan said calmly like he was discussing weather. Albanian crew waiting to grab you when you left the building. Boss anticipated it. Had counter surveillance in place. Are they Did anyone I couldn’t finish the question. Our people are fine.
Theirs are in custody. Local police are already involved, though they won’t learn much. He studied me with sharp eyes that missed nothing. You’re safe now. That’s what matters. But I didn’t feel safe. I felt like I’d stepped through a door into a world I didn’t understand.
Where men waited to kidnap me and gunshots were just part of the landscape. My phone buzzed. Giovani’s number, though I didn’t remember giving it to him. The text was brief. Decision time, Olivia. 3 days of protection. or you’re on your own against people who’ve already found you once. Choose now. I looked at Ryan, at the driver who navigated streets with practice deficiency, at the city passing by outside bulletproof windows.
I typed back one word. Yes, because Camila was right. This was dangerous. But walking away now would be even more deadly. The safe house sat 2 hours north of Portland, carved into mountainside like it belonged there. all glass and stone and security cameras I pretended not to notice.
Ryan showed me to a guest room that had better furniture than my entire apartment, then left me alone with instructions not to wander and a phone number to call if I needed anything. I didn’t sleep the first night, just sat by the floor to ceiling windows, watching armed men patrol the perimeter, their silhouettes passing through pools of landscape lighting like ghosts protecting the living.
Giovanni arrived the next morning carrying a leather messenger bag that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He looked different without the suit jacket, just dark slacks and a gray button-down with sleeves rolled to his elbows. More human, less untouchable coffee. He set the bag on the table, pulled out a thermos and two cups like this was normal, like I wasn’t being held in protective custody while Albanian mobsters hunted me. black, I said, because refusing felt petty.
He poured with steady hands, passed me a cup that radiated warmth into my palms. The coffee was better than anything I’d ever made myself. Of course it was. I brought more files. He gestured to the bag. Everything I’ve compiled on your father’s investigation. You said you wanted the truth. For the next 4 hours, we sat at that table while he walked me through 15 years of research.
Financial records showing offshore accounts connected to Kresniki’s network. Witness statements from people too terrified to testify. Surveillance photos of meetings between politicians and criminals. My father’s face appeared in some of the older images, always in the background, always watching.
He was meticulous, Giovani said, tracing a line on a flowchart showing money movement between shell companies. Most agents would have given up after hitting the first dead end. Your father just worked harder. He never talked about his cases at home. I stared at a photo of my dad sitting in an unmarked car. Camera pointed at a warehouse.
I thought it was just about rules, keeping work separate. Now I think he was trying to protect me from knowing too much. He was. Giovanni’s voice softened. The last time I saw him, 3 weeks before he died, he told me he had insurance. Something that would bring down the entire network if anything happened to him. I didn’t understand what he meant then. Insurance? My mind raced through possibilities.
You think he left evidence somewhere? I’m certain of it, but never found it. Which means your father hid it well. He came back the second day with different files. These showed his own past. the family business he’d walked away from at 19. Shipping routes that moved more than olives and wine.
Money trails that led to places no legitimate business should touch. “My grandfather built the Moretti family over 40 years,” Giovanni said, showing me a photograph of an old man with fierce eyes. “He came from nothing, survived things I can’t imagine. But somewhere along the way, he forgot the difference between surviving and thriving.
By the time I was old enough to understand what we really did, it was too late to pretend ignorance. Why did you stay until you were 19? Loyalty, fear, stupidity. He set the photo down. All of the above. My mother died when I was 10. My father was, he paused, jaw-tightening. He wasn’t a good man. My grandfather raised me after that. Taught me everything he knew. I loved him. Didn’t want to disappoint him.
But you walked away because your father showed me I could. That there was another path. He met my eyes and I saw the weight he carried. I’ve spent 15 years trying to prove he was right to give me that chance. The third night, a storm rolled through the mountains. I stood on the covered balcony watching lightning split the sky.
Rain hammering against the glass barriers loud enough to drown out thought. Can’t sleep. I turned. Giovani stood in the doorway barefoot, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the muscle beneath. More human than I’d ever seen him. Too much in my head, I admitted. He moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. We watched the storm in silence for a long moment.
That message, I said finally, the one that brought me to the cemetery. You said we’d discuss it later. It’s been 3 days. His expression shifted. something guarded entering his eyes. Ryan sent it. Ryan, why would I ordered him to? Giovani turned to face me fully. Years ago, I gave him standing instructions.
When the time was right, when I was certain it was safe, deliver the money to your father’s grave and notify his daughter. I didn’t expect you to arrive that specific night. So, you’ve been watching me, protecting you. There’s a difference, is there? Anger flickered hot in my chest. You investigated me, tracked my movements, sent cryptic messages. I kept you alive. His voice went hard. Cresiki has been monitoring anyone connected to your father’s case.
If I hadn’t been watching, too, you’d have disappeared months ago. The truth of it hit like the lightning splitting the sky. I wanted to be angry, to feel violated by his surveillance, but the parking garage ambush proved he was right. I hate this,” I whispered. “I hate feeling powerless. You’re not powerless, Olivia.
” He said my name like it meant something. You’re the strongest person I’ve met. You’ve been fighting for answers for 13 years without backup or resources. That takes courage most people don’t have. We were too close. I could see the flex of gold in his dark eyes. Could smell cedar and rain and something uniquely him. When lightning flashed again, illuminating his face.
I saw the same awareness in his expression, the same pull I felt drawing us together. He leaned in just slightly. I started to tilt my head up. Our mouths were inches apart when footsteps pounded up the stairs behind us. Boss. Ryan burst onto the balcony, phone in hand, face grim. It’s Camila Scott. My stomach dropped. What about her? Kresniki’s men took her 2 hours ago from her apartment.
Security footage shows three men professional extraction. Ryan looked at me with something like sympathy. They left a message. They want you in exchange for her release. The world tilted. Camila, my best friend, who’d warned me this would happen. Who’d been right about the danger? Giovani was already moving.
The moment between us evaporating like it had never existed. Get everyone to the command center now. I’m coming with you, I said. Absolutely not. She’s my friend, my responsibility, which is exactly why you’re staying here where it’s safe. Giovani’s voice was pure command. The businessman and the crime lord both present. This is a trap, Olivia. They know I won’t trade you.
They’re counting on it. Then what’s your plan? Let her die. His jaw tightened. Joseph avoided my eyes when assignments were handed out, like he was memorizing exits instead of orders. We’re going to get her back, but you’re not going anywhere near that warehouse. I wasn’t asking permission.
We stared at each other, wills clashing in the space between us. Something dangerous sparked in his eyes, but I held my ground. Finally, he exhaled hard. Fine, but you stay in the command vehicle with Ryan. You wear body armor. You follow every order without question. And if I say run, you run. He stepped closer, invading my space.
Those are my conditions. Break them. And I’ll have Ryan physically remove you. Understood. Understood. The next two hours were controlled chaos. A mobile command center that was really just a heavily armored van filled with surveillance equipment. Ryan outfitted me with a vest that weighed more than my laptop. Explained the basics of the equipment, then made me promise three more times to stay inside the vehicle.
The warehouse sat in an industrial area near the port, all rusted metal and broken windows. Through the van’s monitors, I watched Giovani’s team move into position. They were professionals, silent and efficient, communicating through hand signals I didn’t understand.
Giovani led from the front, gun-drawn, moving like violence was his first language. I’d seen him as a businessman, as someone haunted by the past. But watching him now, I understood what he really was. A predator hunting other predators. The operation took 12 minutes. Gunfire echoed through the monitor’s speakers. Sharp cracks that made me flinch.
Ryan stayed calm, directing units through his headset, eyes never leaving the screens. Then I saw Camila zip tied to a chair in what looked like an office, bruised but alive. Giovanni reached her first, cut her bonds, lifted her with surprising gentleness. Package secured, Ryan said into his headset. Proceed to Xfill. But the Albanians had reinforcements.
Three men appeared in the hallway, weapons raised. I watched Giovani put himself between them and Camila. Watched him kill all three with a precision that stole my breath. No hesitation, no mercy, just cold efficiency that protected what he’d claimed. They brought Camila to the van. She was shaking, crying, holding on to me like I might disappear.
Through the open doors, I saw Giovani standing in the warehouse entrance, blood speckling his white shirt, reloading his weapon with hands that didn’t tremble. That was the moment I understood. This man wasn’t playing at protection. He was built for it, shaped by violence into something that could stand between the innocent and the monsters.
And somehow, impossibly, I was starting to trust him. Giovani insisted I stay at the safe house even after the 72 hours expired. The violence had escalated, he explained. Going back to Portland would put me directly in Kresniki’s crosshairs. Part of me wanted to argue to reclaim some independence. The rest knew he was right.
I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing the warehouse. The way Giovani had moved through those hallways, weapon raised, eliminating threats with surgical precision. Three men dead in less than a minute, their bodies crumpling. The sound of gunfire still echoed in my ears at random moments, making me flinch at shadows.
Camila was recovering in a private hospital 30 minutes away, surrounded by more security than a presidential candidate. Ryan lifted the envelope with gloved hands, photographed each stack, dusted the edges for prints. He wrote the date and time on a yellow card, and slipped it inside the plastic sleeve. “Evidence before comfort,” he said, sealing it. “Boss’s orders.
” “Javanni arranged it all without being asked, ensuring she had the best doctor’s money could buy while keeping her location secret. I visited the second day after the rescue. Ryan driving me in one of those black SUVs I was learning to recognize. She looked smaller in the hospital bed, bruises darkening her cheek and wrists.
When she saw me, tears started immediately. “I’m so sorry,” I said, pulling a chair close. “This is my fault.” I dragged you into this. They were looking for something. Her voice was like she’d been screaming. “Maybe she had.” Kept asking where your father hid it. Said you’d know where the evidence was. I straightened.
Evidence? They said that specifically over and over. That Michael Collins had insurance. Something that would destroy their entire operation. She gripped my hand tighter. Olivia, what did your dad have? I didn’t know. Not then. But that single word, insurance, matched what Giovani had said. My father telling him he had something that would bring down the network if anything happened.
Protection through the threat of exposure. The guilt sat heavy in my chest. Camila had been tortured because of questions I’d been asking, investigations I’d been pursuing. She told me to finish it, to make sure her trauma meant something. Then she asked me to leave so she could sleep. The drive back was silent.
I stared out the window, watching Oregon landscape blur past, my mind churning through possibilities. If my father had hidden evidence, where would he put it? Not at home. The house had been searched after his death. cleared out when I went to live with my aunt in Seattle.
Then I remembered, “Ryan, I need to go to a bank.” The memory surfaced sharp and clear, cutting through years of deliberate forgetting. “First National, downtown Portland.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. That’s not on today’s approved locations. I don’t care. Call Giovani. Tell him I remembered something about my father.
20 minutes later, we were heading back toward the city. this time with two additional SUVs flanking us. Giovanni met us at the bank, appearing from the lead vehicle, looking like he’d been in the middle of something important. His sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly disheveled in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive, but was.
“This better be good,” he said, though his tone held no real irritation. 3 weeks before he died, my dad brought me here. We walked through the marble lobby toward a bank employee Giovani had apparently called ahead. said he was setting up something for my future. Opening a safety deposit box in both our names. You never checked it. I was 15 and my father had just died. I blocked out everything from those last weeks.
The truth tasted bitter until now. The vault was everything you’d expect. Pristine, temperature controlled, silent as a tomb. The bank employee verified our identities, checked signatures, then left us alone with a long metal box that weighed almost nothing. Inside, wrapped in protective plastic, sat an external hard drive, old by modern standards, but the controlled environment had preserved it perfectly.
A note was taped to the top in my father’s handwriting. For Olivia, when you’re ready, Giovani lifted it carefully, turning it over in his hands like it might explode. This is it. This is what got him killed. We took it back to the safe house. Giovani had technology people who could recover data from ancient electronics who knew how to access encrypted files without triggering any self-destruct protocols my father might have installed. It took 6 hours.
I paced the entire time, unable to sit still, unable to think about anything except what might be on that drive. When they finally displayed the contents on a laptop screen, I understood why people had died to keep this secret. 15 years of investigation. Financial records showing money flowing from Albanian trafficking networks through shell companies and into the accounts of politicians, judges, police chiefs, names, dates, amounts, video footage of meetings that should never have happened. Testimony from victims my father had protected and hidden. Bank
records proving everything. My god, I whispered. This could bring down hundreds of people. Giovani scrolled through files. his expression growing darker with each revelation. Your father was building a case that would have destroyed not just Kresniki’s organization, but everyone connected to it. This is why they killed him.
This is what they’ve been searching for. We need to publish this. Public exposure flips their risk calculus, Ryan said. Once this hits, any move against civilians becomes evidence for federal murder for hire. They’ll cut losses and disappear. Get it to every news outlet, every law enforcement agency that isn’t compromised. They’ll bury it. He looked up at me, something hard in his eyes.
Half these people have the power to make evidence disappear. They’ll claim it’s fabricated, sue for defamation, tie it up in courts for years while victims continue suffering. Then what do you suggest? Just let them win? I suggest we use this to destroy Kresniki directly. Force him into the open.
Eliminate the head of the snake while the body’s still writhing. He stood, moving around the desk toward me. You do your part. Publish everything simultaneously across multiple platforms. Make it impossible to suppress. I’ll do mine. Take out Krniki before he can retaliate or disappear. You mean kill him? I mean, finish what your father started. We stood too close in the dimming light of the study.
Outside, the sun was setting over the mountains, painting everything gold and red. The violence of the warehouse still haunted me. But I couldn’t deny the logic. Publication alone wouldn’t stop men like Crash Nikki. They’d just rebuild somewhere else, hurt more people, continue the cycle. How long would we have? 2 weeks to prepare. Maybe three. I need to gather intelligence, position my people, find where Kresniki is hiding.
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. You need time to put together something publication ready that won’t get you sued into oblivion. The touch sent electricity down my spine. We’d been dancing around this for days, the attraction building like pressure behind a dam.
His fingers lingered on my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my jaw. Olivia. My name and his voice sounded like a prayer or a warning. If we do this, there’s no going back. You’ll be committed to a path that ends in blood. My father started down that path 15 years ago. I’m just finishing the journey. He leaned in slowly, giving me time to retreat. I didn’t.
Our mouths met without the hesitation of the almost kiss on the balcony. This was certain and deliberate heat and hunger that had been building since the cemetery. His hands slid into my hair while mine fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. We made it to the couch, barely. Clothes shed between kisses that tasted like desperation and defiance.
His skin was hot under my palms, scarred in places that told stories I didn’t yet know. He touched me like I was precious and breakable until I bit his lip and he understood I wanted the opposite. Making love to Giovanni Moretti was like everything else about him. Controlled intensity giving way to something raw, more honest. He whispered my name against my throat, my shoulder, my lips.
I marked half moons into his back with my fingernails. We came apart together in the fading light. Two people who knew tomorrow might destroy everything. Later, wrapped in blankets on that couch. I remembered the $50,000 still sitting in my closet at the apartment. “That money,” I said against his chest.
“From the cemetery. I’m keeping it as evidence. Another piece of the puzzle. His fingers traced patterns on my bare shoulder. Everything’s evidence now. Everything leads back to your father and what he tried to expose.
Do you think he knew that it would kill him? I think he knew the risk and decided some things were worth dying for. Javanni pressed a kiss to my hair. He was brave. Reckless maybe, but brave. I thought about my father in those last weeks. The extra hugs, the careful documentation, the preparation for a future he wouldn’t see. He’d known exactly what he was doing. Building a legacy of truth, even if it cost him everything. We’ll finish it.
I promised the ghost of Michael Collins and the man holding me in the present. Whatever it takes, Giovani’s arms tightened around me. Outside, armed guards patrolled under moonlight. Somewhere, Krniki was planning his next move. And on a 15-year-old hard drive sat enough truth to burn down an empire. The war was coming.
We just had to be ready when it arrived. The training started the next morning. Joseph’s hands shook when he thought no one was looking. Just a tremor along the tendons. I filed it away without a label. Giovanni woke me before dawn, handed me workout clothes that fit perfectly despite never asking my size, and led me to a basement I hadn’t known existed. Padded mats covered the floor.
Weapons hung on walls in neat rows that should have terrified me, but instead felt inevitable. “Self-defense first,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “You need to know how to protect yourself if things go wrong. When things go wrong,” I corrected. He almost smiled. “When, for 2 weeks, I learned how violence worked. How to use an attacker’s momentum against them.
Where to strike to disable rather than kill. How to break holds, create distance, survive long enough for help to arrive. Giovanni was patient but demanding, never letting me quit, even when my muscles screamed and sweat dripped into my eyes. Again, he’d say, resetting his stance. Faster this time. The weapons training was harder. Not physically, but mentally.
Holding a gun felt wrong in ways I couldn’t articulate. Giovani made me practice loading, unloading, clearing jams until my hands moved through the motions automatically. “You don’t have to like it,” he said during one session, watching me sight down the range at paper targets. “You just have to survive,” I thought about my father.
Whether he’d carried a weapon during those final investigations, whether he’d known death was coming and prepared anyway, the gun felt heavier with those thoughts. Between training sessions, I wrote 15 years of evidence transformed into a narrative that couldn’t be ignored, financial flows mapped out in charts, testimony organized chronologically, video and audio files timestamped and verified.
I contacted three journalists I trusted, one each in New York, London, and Berlin. Gave them copies of everything encrypted six ways. explained that when I gave the signal, they’d publish simultaneously across every platform they could access. “This is incredible,” Sarah from the time said during our encrypted video call. “And completely insane. You know people will try to kill you for this. They’re already trying.
” She went quiet for a moment. “We’ll be ready. Just say when.” Giovanni spent those same two weeks planning something darker. I’d see him in the war room, as I’d started calling it, surrounded by maps and photographs and men who spoke in clipped military language.
Ryan was always there along with others whose names I learned slowly. Joseph, who handled surveillance, Christopher, who managed logistics, Anthony, who never spoke but radiated controlled violence. Sometimes I’d join them, listening as they discussed guard rotations and security systems. Kresniki had three properties they’d identified. A warehouse near the port where operations were coordinated.
A safe house in the suburbs where he sometimes stayed. A legitimate business that fronted for money laundering. Giovanni wanted to hit all three simultaneously. Scatter Kresniki’s resources, force him into the open. He’ll run to his main stronghold when the others fall, Giovani explained, pointing to a location marked on the map. That’s where we take him alive if possible.
We need his confession on video before your articles drop. And if he doesn’t confess, Giovani’s expression went cold. He will. I didn’t ask what methods he’d use. Some things I didn’t need to know yet. The nights were ours. We’d fall into bed exhausted from training and planning, but always found energy for each other.
Giovani loved slowly, thoroughly, like he was memorizing every inch of my skin. I’d traced the scars on his body. Each one a story of survival. We didn’t talk about feelings or futures. Just existed in those stolen hours when the world outside couldn’t reach us. One week became two. My muscles grew harder. My aim steadier.
The investigative report reached 90 pages of documented evidence that would destroy hundreds of careers and lives. Giovani’s plan evolved into something elegant and lethal. Every contingency mapped. On the 13th day, Ryan interrupted dinner with news that changed the timeline. “Kresniki is moving,” he said, tablet in hand, showing surveillance feeds. “Our sources say he’s relocating tomorrow night, heading to a compound near the Canadian border. Once he’s there, we’ll never reach him.
” Giovani set down his fork with deliberate calm. How reliable is the intelligence? Three independent confirmations. He’s spooked. Knows something’s coming. I watched Giovani process this. saw the moment he shifted from planning to execution mode. Pull everyone back. We move in 12 hours. My stomach dropped. 12 hours. We weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready. Olivia Giovanni’s hand covered mine on the table.
Can you have everything prepared by dawn? Could I? The articles were written. The journalists briefed. But my mind rebelled against the suddeness. Yes. Then we do this tomorrow night. The preparation that evening was controlled chaos. Men arriving at the safe house in groups, checking weapons, reviewing assignments. I finalized the publication sequence with Sarah and the others.
Scheduled everything to go live at precisely 900 p.m. Pacific time. Giovani wanted Kresniki in custody before the internet exploded with evidence of his crimes. Near midnight, I found myself standing by the windows watching the last of the sunset paint the mountains gold and purple. Tomorrow night, this would be over. One way or another.
Come with me, Giovanni said from the doorway. There’s something I need to do. He drove us to Cedar Hill Cemetery in one of the SUVs, just the two of us. The graves looked different in the gathering darkness, peaceful rather than ominous. My father’s headstone gleamed under the security lights that lined the paths.
Giovani parked and we walked to the grave together. He carried no flowers, no offerings, just stood there looking at the carved name, Michael Collins, beloved father. Then he dropped to one knee. The gesture shocked me. This man who commanded dozens, who’d killed without hesitation, kneeling in the dirt before my father’s memory.
He spoke in Italian first, words I couldn’t understand, but felt in the cadence. Then he switched to English. Voice rough with emotion I’d never heard from him. I failed you once. Let you die when I should have been watching. Should have protected you better. He paused, hand pressed flat against the ground. But I won’t fail her. Your daughter, she’s everything you said she’d be.
Brave and stubborn and too smart for her own good. Tomorrow I finish what you started. I promise you, Michael Collins, on my life and my honor, I’ll keep her safe, no matter what it costs. Tears blurred my vision. I’d cried at this grave 13 years ago, 17 years old, and shattered. But these tears felt different.
Not grief exactly, something closer to closure. Giovanni stood, dirt on his knee, and pulled me close. He’d be proud of you. I hope so. My voice cracked. I really hope so. We stayed until full darkness fell, until the groundskeeper made his final rounds and the gates closed for the night. On the drive back, Gavanni held my hand across the center console, thumb rubbing circles on my palm.
Tomorrow changes everything, I said. Tomorrow we take back what they stole. From your father, from all the victims, from everyone they hurt. Back at the safe house, the war room thrummed with final preparations. Ryan met us at the door. Phone already in hand. Just got confirmation. Krasniki is still at the downtown safe house. Window of opportunity closes at midnight tomorrow. After that, he’s in the wind.
Giovani nodded once. Then we end this. Everyone on ready status. Operation launches at 2,000 hours. 2000 hours. 8:00 p.m. 12 hours until everything changed. I went to my room, checked the publication sequence one more time, sent encrypted messages to all three journalists confirming the timeline. Then I sat on the edge of the bed.
Gun Javanni had given me cleaned and loaded on the nightstand and tried not to think about all the ways tomorrow could go catastrophically wrong. Giovani found me there an hour later. Didn’t speak. Just pulled me into his arms and held on like he could protect me from tomorrow through sheer force of will.
We’re ready,” he whispered against my hair. I wished I believed him. Believed myself, believed that 15 years of death and secrets could be resolved in one night of coordinated violence and published truth. But ready or not, morning would come, and with it war. The command van smelled like electronics and stale coffee.
Ryan sat beside me, eyes fixed on six monitors showing feeds from body cameras on Giovani’s team. A technician, whose name I’d learned was David, worked the communications board, routing encrypted signals between units. “All teams in position,” Ryan said into his headset. “Targets confirmed at all three locations, standing by for go signal.” Giovani’s voice crackled through the speakers. “Execute.
” The first target, a warehouse near the port, fell fast. I watched through shaky camera feeds as Giovani’s men breached the loading dock doors. 8 minutes of controlled chaos. Men in Albanian colors surrendering or going down under suppressive fire. No casualties on our side. The feed showed crates of shipping manifests being photographed. Computers seized.
Target alpha secure, someone reported, proceeding to secondary sweep. Target beta took 12 minutes. A lieutenant’s house in the suburbs, heavily fortified, but not prepared for a coordinated assault from three directions. The cameras showed Giovani’s people moving through rooms with practiced efficiency, zip tying hands, securing evidence, more computers, more files. One lieutenant who tried to run and got tackled in his own backyard. Target beta secure.
High value prisoner acquired. Target Charlie was different from the start. The camera feed showed a fortified compound with actual guard towers and reinforced gates. Kneaki’s primary safe house, the place he’d retreat when everything else collapsed. Giovanni led that assault personally. I watched his feed, recognized the way he moved, weapon up, clearing corners with Joseph and Christopher flanking him.
The resistance was immediate and heavy. Muzzle flashes lit up the night vision cameras. Contact front. Someone shouted over comms. Multiple hostiles, second floor. The gunfight lasted minutes that felt like hours. I gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, watching Giovani’s camera bobb and weave through corridors.
He took fire, returned it, kept advancing. Then his camera jerked hard, and I saw blood spray across the lens. Giovanni. His name tore from my throat before I could stop it. Boss’s hit. Christopher’s voice came through. Left arm still mobile. The feed stabilized. Giovani’s gloved hand came into view, pressing against his bicep where fabric had torn and blood darkened his sleeve, but his weapon never wavered. “Keep pushing,” Giovani ordered, voice tight with pain.
“Kresniki’s on the third floor.” “Anthony, take point.” They found him in what looked like a converted office. Arban Kresniki, 45 years old, surrounded by paperwork he’d been frantically burning. Giovanni’s team secured him efficiently, zip tied his hands behind his back, and dragged him to a chair. What followed made my stomach turn.
Not violence exactly, but the threat of it. Javanni standing over Crashiki, bleeding from his arm wound, asking questions in a voice that promised consequences for lies. The Albanian tried to stay silent. lasted maybe 3 minutes before Givani nodded to Anthony and whatever Anthony did off camera made Krenniki start talking. The confession spilled out in accented English mixed with his native language names, operations, the order to kill Michael Collins 13 years ago. Everything documented on David’s recording equipment, timestamped and backed up to
three separate encrypted servers. Got it all, David confirmed. Confession is solid. Xfill now, Giovani ordered. Windows closing. That’s when everything went wrong. The ambush hit as they left the building. Reinforcements the surveillance hadn’t detected, arriving in vehicles without lights. Suddenly, all three camera feeds showed chaos.
Giovani’s people were caught in a crossfire, pinned between the building and attacking forces. Multiple hostiles. Ryan barked into his headset. Where the hell did they come from? They must have had a silent alarm, David said, fingers flying over keyboards. I’m counting at least 15 incoming. Our van sat two blocks away, supposedly secure in an alley behind a closed factory. I heard the gunfire before I saw them.
Three men in dark clothes sprinting toward us, weapons raised. “Contact!” Ryan shouted, drawing his own gun. The first bullets shattered the van’s front windshield. David was turning toward the sound when the second volley hit. I saw the impact, saw him jerk backward, blood blooming across his chest. He collapsed without making a sound.
Ryan returned fire through the broken windshield, taking position between me and the attackers. Get down. I dropped to the floor, heart slamming so hard I thought my ribs would crack. More gunshots. The van’s side window exploded, raining safety glass across my back. Through the chaos, I heard Ryan grunt. Saw him stagger. “Ryan, I’m fine.” He gritted out, but blood soaked his left shoulder.
He kept firing with his right hand, each shot precise despite the injury. “Stay down, Olivia.” The gun Giovanni had given me sat in my waistband, heavy and foreign. I’d trained with it, knew how to use it. But training and reality were different universes. My hands shook as I pulled it free, clicked off the safety. the way Giovani had taught me.
One of the attackers appeared at the broken side window, weapon coming up to aim inside the van. I didn’t think, just raised my gun and fired. The recoil shocked me, sent my second and third shots wild. I didn’t hit him, but he flinched back. Bought us 3 seconds. Ryan used those seconds. Two shots, both center mass. The attacker went down. Then Giovani was there appearing like violence incarnate.
Blood on his arm, on his face, murder in his dark eyes. He and two others engaged the remaining attackers with overwhelming force. The firefight lasted 30 seconds. When it ended, Giovanni wrenched open the van’s back door. His gaze found me immediately, swept over the blood covering my clothes.
For one frozen moment, I saw absolute terror in his eyes, raw and exposed in a way I’d never seen before. “I’m okay,” I said quickly. “It’s Ryan’s blood. I’m okay.” The relief that flooded his expression lasted half a heartbeat before the mask returned. He helped Ryan out of the van, got him into one of the SUVs.
Christopher and Anthony loaded Crash Nikki, still zip tied and now gagged, into another vehicle. David? Giovani asked, though he could see the answer through the shattered windshield. I shook my head. My first time watching someone die. Not in surveillance footage, but real and immediate. The technician who’d sat beside me minutes ago, gone before I could even process what happened.
“We need to move,” Ryan said through gritted teeth, his good hand pressing a field dressing to his wounded shoulder. “Now.” The convoy raced to a backup location, an industrial building Giovani owned under a shell corporation. Inside, medics were already waiting. They descended on Ryan and Giovani immediately, cutting away bloody fabric, assessing damage.
Giovani’s wound was through and through, missing bone and major vessels. Lucky Ryan’s was worse. Bullet lodged in muscle that would require surgery. But he was conscious, alert, still giving orders even as they worked on him. I sat against a wall watching them prep the confession video. Kresniki on camera, blood trickling from his nose where someone had convinced him cooperation was wise.
The audio was clear, damning. Admissions of trafficking, murder, corruption. My father’s name spoken with casual confirmation that yes, they’d killed him. Yes, it was ordered from the top. We had everything. The evidence from my father, the forced confession, documentation from three raided locations, everything needed to destroy the network.
Then Cresniki started laughing. The sound cut through the controlled chaos like broken glass. Giovani crossed the room in three strides, grabbed the Albanian by his shirt. Something funny? You think you won? Kraniki’s English was good, his accent thick. But I already gave the order before you took me. Kill the families of all your captains. Their wives, their children, their parents.
Everyone they love dies in the next 30 minutes unless you let me go. The room went silent. He’s bluffing. Christopher said, “Am I?” Kresniki’s smile was horrible. Check your phones. See what my people are sending you. Javanni pulled out his phone. His face went white. Whatever image he saw made his hand shake before he controlled it.
How many? 15 targets, 15 families. Crashniki leaned back despite the zip ties. You have 30 minutes to release me, Moretti. Or their blood is on your hands. I watched Giovani’s world collapse behind his eyes. Everything he’d built. Everyone loyal to him. Their families now held hostage because of this operation. Because of me, because of my father’s evidence and my need for justice.
We can get to them, Anthony started. Not in 30 minutes, Giovani cut him off. Not all of them. He planned this. Ryan struggled to sit up despite the medics trying to keep him down. There might be another way. I knew what he meant before he said it. Publish now everything. Make it public before Kraniki’s deadline. Force the authorities to respond. Remove his leverage.
If we publish the evidence now, I said, pulling out my phone with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, it goes viral in minutes. FBI, DEA, ATF will have to respond immediately. His people will abort rather than risk exposure. Or they’ll kill everyone anyway, Kresniki said. Out of spite, maybe. I looked at Giovani, saw the impossible choice crushing him. But it’s the only play we have left.
29 minutes until 15 families died. 29 minutes to save them or watch everything burn. Giovanni met my eyes across the bloodstained concrete. Made his decision. Do it. My fingers moved faster than my thoughts, typing the signal code into three separate encrypted messages. Sarah in New York, Thomas in London, Maria in Berlin, the journalists who’d been waiting for this moment.
Publishing in 3 minutes, I said, voice steadier than my hands. Once it’s live, there’s no taking it back. Giovani stood across the warehouse, blood still seeping through the makeshift bandage on his arm. His face was carved from stone. But I saw the war raging behind his eyes. 15 families, people who trusted him, who’d followed him, whose children played in backyards while their fathers did terrible things in his name.
Do it,” he repeated. Kresniki laughed again. “That horrible wet sound. You’re choosing wrong, Moretti. Those families are already dead. You just don’t know it yet. Shut them up,” Giovani ordered. Anthony gagged Kraniki with efficiency that suggested practice. I hit send on all three messages simultaneously.
Then opened Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. Created posts with links to cloud storage containing everything. Financial records, video testimony, photographs of meetings that should never have happened. 15 years of my father’s investigation unleashed on the world in 15 seconds. It’s out, I whispered. Ryan worked his phone one-handed, the other arm hanging useless at his side.
already spreading. First shares coming in. Guardian just picked it up. Four minutes. The posts multiplied like viruses, jumping from account to account. News organizations scrambled to verify, but the evidence was too comprehensive to ignore. Names started trending. Politicians, judges, police chiefs.
The algorithm god smiled on truth for once, pushing our revelations into millions of feeds. 7 minutes. CNN sent a breaking news alert. BBC followed 30 seconds later. The story was too big, too, too explosive to contain. FBI Portland field office is mobilizing, Ryan reported, monitoring police scanners. DEA2. They’re moving on all the addresses we provided. 8 minutes. Christopher checked in from his surveillance post.
Albanian crew at the Henderson House just received a call. They’re pulling back. say authorities are inbound. One by one, the reports came in. Kresniki’s people aborting their attacks, melting away as federal vehicles descended on their positions. Not all of them. Three families had close calls.
Teams arriving seconds before the Albanians fled, but no casualties. No blood spilled because of our impossible choice. Giovani’s shoulders sagged fractionally. Relief so profound it looked like pain. 15 families safe, Ryan confirmed. All targets secured. I wanted to feel victorious. Instead, exhaustion pulled at every cell.
We’d won by breaking every rule, by gambling with lives and trusting that speed would outpace violence. Somehow, impossibly, it had worked. Then, Kresniki made a sound behind his gag. Not fear, satisfaction. Giovani crossed the distance in three strides, ripped the gag away. What? You think you won? Blood and spit flew from Kresniki’s mouth. But I’ve been playing this game longer than you, boy. Always have insurance. Always have leverage.
Your leverage just evaporated when those families were secured. That leverage, yes, but not the real one. Kresniki’s eyes glittered with malice. Two of your precious captains, your trusted men, they work for the FBI, have been for 18 months. Your whole organization is compromised. The words hit like detonations.
I saw Giovani process them, saw the implications cascade through his mind. Every operation, every decision, every secret potentially fed to federal handlers. You’re lying, Christopher said, but uncertainty cracked his voice. Am I? Check your phones. FBI just sent warrants for your arrests. They’ve been building a case using testimony from your own people. Ryan was already checking. His face went pale.
He’s not lying. Federal warrants just issued. Multiple counts. Rico charges. The warehouse erupted into controlled chaos. Men checking phones, cursing, some already moving toward exits. The plan had been to secure Kresniki, get his confession, then let the evidence do its work. Now Giovani’s entire operation was collapsing from the inside.
Who? Giovani’s voice was ice and fury. Which ones? Before anyone could answer, Joseph drew his weapon. Not pointing at Crashiki, pointing at Giovani. I’m sorry, boss. His voice shook, but his hands stayed steady. I didn’t want it to go down like this, but they have my sister. They’ve had her for 20 months. Said they’d kill her if I didn’t cooperate. Everything slowed down.
I saw Giovani’s hand move toward his own weapon. Saw Christopher and Anthony responding, their training kicking in. Saw Ryan trying to stand despite his wound. Saw Joseph’s finger tighten on the trigger. I moved without thinking. Training Giovani had drilled into me, taking over. Three steps put me between them.
I shoved Giovanni hard, felt him stumble backward. Felt the impact in my shoulder before I heard the shot. The bullet didn’t hurt at first, just pressure, like someone had punched me. Then fire spread through my entire left side, stealing my breath, buckling my knees. The second shot never came.
Ryan, somehow standing despite his wound, fired twice. Both rounds sent her mass. Joseph dropped, weapon clattering on concrete. Someone was screaming. Took me seconds to realize it wasn’t me. was Anthony shouting orders, trying to secure the perimeter. Through the noise, I heard more gunfire. The second traitor, whoever he was, making a break for it.
Then Giovani’s hands were on me, turning me carefully, his face appearing above mine. Blood soaked through my shirt, hot and wrong, his expression shattered in ways I’d never seen. Raw terror replacing the control he wore like armor. Olivia, stay with me. Look at me. His voice cracked on my name. I’m okay.
The words came out weak, unconvincing even to me. You’re not okay. You took a bullet meant for me. His hand pressed against my shoulder, trying to stem the bleeding. The pressure made me gasp. Worth it. I managed. Wouldn’t let him shoot you. Medic. Giovani roared. Now, but the sirens were already approaching. Multiple vehicles closing fast.
The evidence we’d published had lit a fire under every law enforcement agency in the state. They were coming for all of us. Boss, we need to move. Christopher urged FBI is 2 minutes out. I’m not leaving her. They’ll arrest you. Charge you with everything. You need to run. Giovani looked down at me, his dark eyes swimming with something I’d never seen in them before. Tears.
actual tears cutting tracks through the blood and dirt on his face. This man who’d killed without hesitation, who commanded through fear and respect, was crying over me. “I’m not leaving,” he said again. Quieter, his thumb brushed my cheek, gentle despite the violence surrounding us. “You saved my life again. You keep saving me, Giovani.
” Ryan’s voice carried warning. 30 seconds. The warehouse doors burst open. Paramedics first, then federal agents in tactical gear, weapons up, shouting commands. Giovanni raised his hands slowly, never taking his eyes off mine. Someone was cutting my shirt away, pressing gauze against the wound, asking me questions I couldn’t process.
Olivia Collins. An agent appeared in my fading vision. We need you to come with us. You’re a material witness. She’s been shot. Giovanni snarled. She needs a hospital. Ambulance is ready. We’ll provide protection on route. More hands lifted me onto a gurnie. Every movement sent lightning through my shoulder. Through the chaos, I found Giovani.
They were cuffing him, reading him his rights. He didn’t resist. Just kept his eyes locked on mine as they led him away. No words passed between us. Didn’t need them. Everything that mattered lived in that look. Gratitude. Terror. something deeper that neither of us had dared name yet. The ambulance doors closed, severing the connection.
Sirens wailed as we raced through Portland streets. A female agent sat beside me, taking notes, asking questions I answered mechanically. Yes, I’d published the evidence. Yes, I knew Giovani Moretti. Yes, I understood I’d be required to testify. My shoulder burned, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Giovani was arrested.
Ryan was wounded. David was dead. Joseph was dead. Everything had fractured in ways I didn’t know how to fix. But 15 families were alive. Kresniki’s network was exposed. My father’s 15-year investigation had finally reached the light. As the ambulance pulled into the hospital emergency bay, I touched the wound on my shoulder. Blood on my fingers.
My blood spilled protecting a man who’d spent 15 years honoring his debt to my father. The circle was closing. Whether we’d survived to see it complete remained written in futures I couldn’t predict. 18 months changed everything and nothing. The federal courthouse became as familiar as my own apartment. Depositions, grand jury testimony, pre-trial hearings that stretched across seasons. I spent more time with prosecutors than friends.
walking them through every document my father had compiled, every connection we’d uncovered, every moment that led to that warehouse, and the bullet that still lived in my shoulder as scar tissue. The FBI understood faster than I expected.
The evidence was legitimate inheritance, passed from father to daughter through a safety deposit box I’d accessed legally. My publication hadn’t been criminal. It had been journalism under extreme circumstances, exposing corruption that law enforcement had failed to address for 15 years. They detained me initially as a material witness. But within 72 hours, I was released without charges, cooperating witness status, protected, not prosecuted. The shoulder healed slowly.
Physical therapy three times a week for 6 months. relearning how to lift my arm above my head without pain shooting down to my fingertips. The scar was ugly, puckered in pink. A permanent reminder of the second I’d stepped between Giovani and a bullet. It achd when storms rolled through Portland.
Phantom pain that no amount of medication could fully erase. I didn’t mind. The ache meant I was alive. Giovani was alive. That mattered more than vanity. My article won the Pulitzer. They announced it on a Tuesday morning while I sat in a coffee shop reviewing legal documents.
Sarah called, screaming congratulations so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. The ceremony was formal and surreal. Standing on a stage accepting recognition for work that had cost David his life that had nearly cost all of us everything. But the real victory wasn’t the award. It was the numbers. 47 people rescued from trafficking operations across three states.
12 police officers and seven politicians charged with corruption. Arban Kraniki sentenced to life without parole in a maximum security facility where his connections meant nothing. His entire network dismantled piece by piece through prosecutions that were still ongoing 18 months later. The second trader, Paulo, who’ tried to escape during the chaos, had been captured three blocks from the warehouse. He was serving 25 years trading information for reduced time.
Giovani’s deal took months to negotiate. His lawyers were expensive and clever, painting him as someone who’d cooperated with law enforcement who’d helped take down a trafficking network despite personal risk. The RICO charges would have buried him for decades. Instead, he plead guilty to moneyaundering from his family’s old operations, testified against Kraniki and every corrupt official we documented, and received 4 years with eligibility for parole in two.
He was sent to a minimum security federal facility in Oregon. Not close, but close enough for weekly visits. The first time I saw him in prison, clothes devastated me. Giovani Moretti, who’d worn expensive suits like armor, reduced to standard issue khaki, but his eyes were the same.
Those dark brown eyes that had watched me across cemetery graves and war rooms and hospital beds. “You look terrible,” I said, settling into the plastic chair across from him. You look beautiful. His voice was rough from disuse. We didn’t discuss feelings during those visits. Talked instead about practical things. He was studying law through a prison education program, reading case files until his eyes hurt, determined to understand the system that had caged him.
I was writing a book about my father, about his investigation and sacrifice, about the cost of truth. What will you call it? Giovanni asked during a visit in month 7. The long investigation. 15 years from his death to justice seemed appropriate. He smiled. Rare and genuine. He’d be proud. Ryan recovered fully from his shoulder wound. The surgery had been complicated, but military doctors knew their work.
He’d been released from the hospital after 2 weeks. Spent another month in physical therapy, then quietly took over management of the mountain safe house. When I needed somewhere to live that wasn’t my compromised Portland apartment, he offered the property without hesitation. Boss would want you safe, he’d said simply.
Living there meant living with ghosts. The couch where Giovani and I had first made love, the war room where we’d planned everything. The balcony where we’d almost kissed before Camila’s kidnapping changed everything. But it also meant security, space to write, distance from the reporters who still occasionally tried to doorstep me for follow-up interviews. Camila visited every few weeks.
She’d spent 4 months in therapy processing her abduction, the fear, the helplessness, but she was stronger for it in ways that mattered. Started a nonprofit helping trafficking survivors, channeling her trauma into something that healed others. You’re allowed to fall apart, she told me during one visit, watching me stare at yet another legal brief. I’ll fall apart when this is over. It’ll never be over, Liv.
That’s the point. You survived something terrible, and now you have to learn how to live after. She was right. Stopping felt like betraying my father all over again. But I was learning slowly. The parole hearing happened in month 17. Giovani’s lawyers were cautiously optimistic.
He’d been a model prisoner, caused no trouble, completed his educational programs, continued cooperating with ongoing investigations. The board voted 3 to2 in his favor, parole granted, with conditions, no contact with known criminals, regular check-ins with his parole officer, prohibition on leaving the state. They released him on a Thursday in April, 18 months after that warehouse.
I waited in the parking lot, leaning against my car in spring sunshine, watching the prison doors like they might not actually open, like this might be another dream I’d wake from. Then he emerged, different and the same, thinner, harder around the edges, carrying a single bag with his few possessions. He stopped at the gate, scanned the parking lot, found me. The distance between us evaporated.
I was running before deciding to move, and he caught me. arms wrapping around my waist, lifting me off my feet. We held each other in that parking lot for what felt like hours, saying nothing because words were insufficient for the relief, the gratitude, the impossible joy of survival.
You waited, he said finally, face buried in my hair. Every week, I know, I know you did. Giovani started his security consulting business three weeks after release. Legitimate work, helping businesses protect assets and personnel. The business grew faster than expected. Turns out people valued expertise from someone who’d lived in both worlds.
I continued my investigative work, focusing on corruption. The book was scheduled for release in 6 months, already generating interest. I’d donate most of the proceeds to trafficking victim support. blood money transformed into something useful.
6 months after his release on a Saturday morning, when weather was perfect, Giovani drove us to Cedar Hill Cemetery, we walked to my father’s grave together, carrying fresh flowers. The headstone looked the same as it had that rainy night 18 months ago when 10 men in black suits had circled it. When Giovani had left $50,000 and a note about debts paid, Giovani knelt in the grass, placed the flowers carefully at the base of the stone.
He spoke in Italian first, words I still didn’t understand but felt in their reverence. Then he switched to English, his hand pressed flat against the carved letters of my father’s name. I kept my promise. Michael Collins. Your daughter is safe. More than safe. She’s extraordinary. His voice broke slightly. I finished what you started. We finished it together. The network is destroyed.
47 people are free because of the evidence you gathered because you refused to stop even when it cost you everything. Tears blurred my vision. I knelt beside Giovani, placed my hand over his going to spend the rest of my life protecting her. Giovani continued, “Not because I owe you, because I love her, because she’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and you gave me the chance to become someone worthy of that.” He turned to me then, and I saw tears tracking down his face.
Giovani Moretti, who I’d watched kill without hesitation, who commanded through strength and violence, crying in front of my father’s grave. Olivia, he pulled a small box from his pocket. I’m not good at speeches, and this isn’t about grand gestures. It’s just truth. You saved my life the night we met. You’ve saved it every day since.
I want to spend whatever time we have left returning the favor. Will you marry me? The ring was simple. White gold, single diamond, nothing ostentatious. Perfect. Yes, I whispered. Yes. He slid the ring onto my finger with shaking hands, then pulled me close. We stayed kneeling there in the grass, holding each other while the spring breeze moved through the cemetery and birds sang in the oak tree overhead.
Your father would approve, I said against his shoulder. I hope so. I really hope so. We stayed until the sun began its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. When we finally stood, Giovani took my hand, laced our fingers together. “Ready?” he asked. I looked one last time at my father’s grave.
“They were mine,” Giovani said when I asked about the 10 men in black at my father’s grave. Old country men. They understand ritual. The weight of a name carved in stone. I sent them so no one could call the payment rumor. Some debts deserve witnesses. And your father deserved more than rumor at the name carved in stone. At the flowers we’d brought.
13 years of grief and anger and searching for truth. 18 months of war and testimony and rebuilding. All of it leading to this moment. Standing in a cemetery with the man I loved. Both of us scarred but alive. Both of us free. Ready, I said. We walked back to the car together, hands joined, not looking back. The past was honored. The debt was paid.
What came next belonged to us alone.