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Celeste nods along and snickers at that but otherwise stays silent. I’m guessing she recognizes some of the names as associates her grandfather hobnobs with, perhaps her parents too. They might not hold much importance to her though.
I turn the page, tapping on an especially interesting tidbit. “Shit. Fucking Vargas.”
Gage bellows a laugh. Since Vargas is our primary FBI contact, we know he’s dirty. Hell, his relations with us alone could send him away for life. But there’s some hefty transgressions listed here. He should thank his lucky stars that he’s our guy because we could easily decimate him with this.
But he’s not the only agent from the bureau or the CIA listed here.
“This is like fucking gold,” Gage hisses, rattling off a handful of agents we’re familiar with for various reasons. “Armstrong, Glines, Mason, Stewart, and motherfucking Cole. That asshole. Racketeering, extortion, and he fucking framed his mistress’s husband. Christ.” He whoops, wiping giddy tears from his eyes, like he just set his sights on the mother lode. “Forget jail time. Doubtful Maryann knows about this shit. She’d fucking murder him.”
We make it our business to know those who could come after us and those who choose to aid us—whether it be for our erasing business or KORT affairs—inside and out. We have files on every-fucking-one. Their families, their hobbies, their health habits, their side deals.
Don’t buy into the saintly posturing most of those guys hold themselves with. It’s generally a cheap-ass veneer. People are rarely squeaky clean. The higher the classification, the larger the shadow to hide behind. And sordid things happen in the shadows. So, if there’s any chance they could turn on us, we gather all we can on them. But it’s rare to have things so damaging laid bare.
These aren’t bargaining chips. These are fucking death warrants.
For those we’re in bed with, they just won the damn lottery.
We keep flipping through, some pages more shocking than others—most especially one nailing Jensen, the politician Ivy hates, to the wall. She’ll be over the moon about that. It certainly explains why he hired the Skulls to hunt this down.
But none catches my attention like the one my finger is currently grazing. “The Noires. Jesus,” I breathe. “Axel.”
Gage drags a hand down his face, clearly as stunned as I am. “Holy shit. There’s no way he fucking knows that.”
The information continues on the following page. It’s all a confounding mess I can’t fully process.
“He alluded to some of this. I mean, we knew his parents died in a fire and about Balzano’s involvement with his mom, although not to this degree, not this shit—”
Celeste’s gasp cuts me short, followed up by a wounded bleat of, “Fuck me.”
We both turn to study her. The reaction seems too much, even considering what’s before us regarding the Noires. All the color has drained from her face as her nail pecks the bottom of the page.
“This is what Ben died for,” is all she manages, so I focus on what she’s reading.
During a water main breakage in Rosebud Township, Pennsylvania, a body was found in a Carver Homes development. Police Chief Gerald Hoagland contacted me to fulfill his debt on case 4295. After concluding that Frank Carver—in compliance with the secret society The Order—uses his construction sites for burial grounds, Hoagland performed a private DNA test to determine the victim’s identity.
It is suspected that the deceased is a missing member of the Chicago O’Reilly family, but as of this initial entry, the results are still pending. The involvement of the O’Reilly Mafia immediately catapults this into a grievous offense, one which carries the likelihood of war should this be revealed. There is also reason to believe this affects the newer underground organization, KORT, as Daniel O’Reilly is suspected to be one of the founding members. Investigations are ongoing to uncover details regarding the validity of KORT’s existence.
Celeste shakily turns the page to see if there’s more, alerting us there is when her hand slaps over her mouth, muffling a shriek.
Update: The victim’s identity was confirmed to be Eleanor Healy, the missing fiancée of Daniel O’Reilly.
There’s no way Frank or Ben or anyone else could have known, but it looks like Celeste’s dad covered up the murder of Ivy’s birth mom—Eleanor Healy.
CELESTE
My stomach has leaped into my throat, my old familiar mantra of never let them see berating me. Because I’m untethered. I have been, in one way or another, for a while now. And I seem to be failing miserably at concealing it.
I think I’ve done a pretty good job of rolling with the punches—attacked and kidnapped and targeted. Family rifts and the loss of men I cherish. I’ve kept it together, considering. Not like a master chess player because God knows I’m running low on tactical moves. But keeping myself from crumpling to a heap on the floor. Check.
Like a damn ballerina twirling in an earthquake.
But this … we all have our breaking point. And this is …
“Why the fuck would he have left this for you instead of your dad?” Gage barks, interrupting my downward spiral.
There’s a mixture of bewilderment and possession swirling inside his inquiry, and my heart swells with the realization that Gage feels protective—not merely over my physical safety. This is about my mental well-being too.
But it’s evident by that snarled criticism that he thinks Ben handled this wrong, put me in danger by giving me this information. It does essentially make me a guilty party in my father’s dealings—now that I’m fully aware of his nefarious conduct and sitting on the information. And Ben couldn’t have known that I’d be protected by men who could obliterate any monsters who pursued me.
