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Male. Francis Julian Scott.
Mother: Joanna Scott. Deceased.
Remittance: 30,000 euro.
Dependent of Charles Montague.
Current address: St. Mary’s Parish Church, South West England.
Thumbnail photos of a shy two-year-old boy were queued up, waiting to be opened. Vitari hovered the arrow over the first but there was no use seeing the truth, when they already knew what it meant. Francis’s face was grave in the glow from the laptop.
“This links you to the boys’ home,” Vitari said. “And Montague. It’s proof it’s all connected, proof you were… bought.”
“I never knew my mum’s name,” Francis mumbled. “My middle name is Julian? Huh.”
Fuck, this was already too much. He couldn’t put Francis through this. “We don’t need to do this.”
“Yes, we do. Keep going,” Francis said. “Another file. Open it. We have to know they’re all here.”
Vitari closed Francis’s file and opened another. He didn’t recognize the boy, but from Francis’s gasp, he did.
The name was marked: Deceased.
This entry had a dependent name associated with it too, a well-known politician. The dead kid had been bought like a cheap whore and killed when he no longer suited the man’s requirements, or when he’d become a liability.
“This is everything,” Vitari whispered. “It’s all here, all of it. Missing kids, their names, numbers, locations, addresses before and after they were sold, who bought them.” He slumped in the seat. “My father knew all this and did nothing?!”
Blood rushed in his ears. He needed to move and shot from the chair. He paced the small space behind Davis and kicked at some fallen papers. “He fucking kept it quiet. My name is written on a sticker on that drive. Why the fuck didn’t he tell me before? Why wait?”
Francis dropped into the chair Vitari had left and resumed opening the folders. “Maybe he thought it too dangerous? The names here… The people who bought the boys. This is an international scandal.”
“He could have blown the whole thing wide open years ago.”
“So why didn’t he?” Father Davis asked.
“Cowardice. Shame,” Vitari snapped. “This would make him look weak. His own son, his wife, ruined by Sasha, and he did nothing.”
“It’s more than that,” Francis said. “Sal’s father, Antonio? I ran a search in this folder, and look. His name is in these files.” Francis opened the folder marked with an X that had popped up.
Blurry black-and-white photos filled the screen.
“I don’t know…” Francis mumbled. “What is this? What am I looking at?”
Vitari leaned over Francis’s shoulder and the grainy black-and-white photos took shape, so fucking familiar it sickened him. The boys in the images, he knew their faces. They were the boys from the back room… But in these horrible pictures, they were no longer alive. “Fuck.” Bile burned his throat. “These are snuff photos.”
“What’s that?” Francis asked, then after a few beats he exhaled hard. “Oh God. No.” He cringed away from the laptop screen. “I can’t… look at that.”
A younger Antonio, Sal’s father, featured in one of the images. And the more Vitari searched, the more he recognized Little Toni’s bulk in the other pictures too.
He hadn’t thought Stanmore could get worse. But it had.
The file contained photographic evidence, videos, names, addresses, everything. “This is why Toni sent Sal for the drive.”
Francis looked up, his eyes so fucking wide and innocent that Vitari wanted to slam the laptop closed and toss the whole thing in the trash. “We need to get this information to the police.”
“Francis, the people in these pictures—billionaires, celebrities—they will make this shit go away. It’ll never see a courtroom.”
“Then…” Francis glanced at Davis and back to Vitari. “What do we do?”
