BRANDON
I ’ve only just combed through the first box Grayson collected for me weeks ago in the boardroom at HQ when Isabelle bounces into the room. We’ve seen each other in passing the past couple of weeks, but our contact has been sporadic. My thoughts have been too focused on my past to add fuck-ups of the present into the mix.
It took longer than I would have liked, but I got justice for Mr. and Mrs. Gregg. The person responsible for their death can’t face charges, but Melody knows the truth, and that’s all that matters.
During the process, I also loosened the noose around my neck. Not only did I discover Crombie spilled details on his crew for a reduced sentence, I found out he was wanted for the arson of a building in New Hampshire that killed an ‘associate’s’ wife and children. The target on his back was so visible, even if his death wasn’t ruled a suicide, there were two dozen suspects closer to Crombie than me.
IA is still riding my ass, but not even someone determined to get out of her father’s shadow could deny the evidence I produced. There will still be an inquiry into the fingerprints logged into evidence for Crombie’s earlier conviction. I don’t see it doing much. He was an arsonist, there’s no denying that, so I’m confident in a matter of weeks, Agent Russell’s valuable time will be focused on more important cases. Thank fuck. It’s been a long few weeks.
I stop scrubbing at my tired eyes when Isabelle asks, “Hey, it’s nearly ten o’clock, and we have the weekend off, so what are you doing hiding out in here?”
I smirk when the enthusiasm on her face drains to her shoes when I reply, “I no longer have the weekend off.”
She takes in box after box after box of files before flipping the lid on the ones closest to her. “What are all these files?”
“They’re your Uncle Tobias’s records Alex had shipped here.”
I’m not lying. Alex signed the shipment order. Grayson merely suggested he do it. I’m not necessarily interested in the files Tobias had on Isaac, more the men Isaac associated with back in the day. Many of the faces in the Bobrov crew group photograph were noted in the background of the surveillance images Tobias had of Isaac. Most were the standard bottom dwellers all mafia cartels have, but one was more noteworthy. Col Petretti.
He was the once leader of an Italian association based not too far from here. It all but debunked a few years ago when several high-up members of his association were served consecutive sentences for money laundering, tax fraud, loan racketeering, extortion, and gambling. The only man left standing was Col. Although that makes him an ideal candidate to slot in beneath someone powerful like Isaac Holt or Henry Gottle, no factual evidence alludes to this. Even certain they’re linked in some way, I’ve yet to unearth their connection.
A curious crinkle pops between Isabelle’s brows when I move to a stack in the far corner of the room. “These are your uncle’s files from when he worked undercover in the Petretti family.” I point to the smaller pile she’s standing next to. “And these are his records on the Gottle family.”
Shock is the first thing to register on her face. It’s quickly chased by protectiveness, which is surprising since there have been no reports of her and Isaac uploaded for the past four weeks. “Isaac Holt doesn’t have any business connections with either the Petretti or Gottle family.”
I take my time deliberating what to say next. My trust isn’t just low anymore, it’s basically non-existent. “We already know Isaac is acquainted with Henry Gottle from the surveillance photo you got of Delilah Winterbottom months ago, but I agree, there has been no known association between Col Petretti and Isaac that would warrant me investigating them.” It’s just my desperateness to prove that they are linked that has me burning the candle at both ends, but since that isn’t something I can share with the woman who could possibly be sharing Isaac’s bed, I shunt the blame for my strong work ethic onto an unsuspecting target. “I can’t find any connection between them, but Alex is adamant I have to spend my weekend rifling through these documents until I unearth Isaac’s dark secrets.”
Isabelle’s interests are too piqued to pick up how my pitch accelerated during part of my reply. Alex wants me to compile these files into easy-to-read dot-point documents, but I volunteered for the job. I got justice for Liam and Wren, but I won’t believe I’ve upheld the pledge I made to Mr. Gregg when I was five until I unearth the reason they were targeted to begin with. That has me digging through records almost as old as me.
“Do you believe Isaac’s secrets are held within these boxes?” Isabelle’s voice is a cross between worried and hopeful.
I play it cool even though my stomach is twisted up in knots. My intuition is telling me I’m about to stumble onto something great, but I am as distrusting of it as I am anything right now. “Maybe ask me again next month?”
My heart thumps against my ribcage when Isabelle asks, “Where do you want me to start?”
Is she offering to help me sort through these files with the hope of unearthing Isaac’s secrets? Or does she already know them and praying she can veer me away from the truth?
I guess there’s only one way to find out.
“It’s fine, Izzy. Go and enjoy your weekend off.”
When she slings her coat over a spare chair, I hide my surprise at her eagerness to dig in by rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt.
I don’t have a chance in hell of holding back my smile when she grumbles, “You’re paying for the pizza, though.”
HAVE you ever stepped back and thought wow, I really fucked that up? The first time I thought that was the night Melody left me. The second was when I was stopped by Agent Russell in the parking lot of Isaac’s nightclub. And the third is now.
I was trained to evaluate every emotion that crossed someone’s face, but for the past seven years, I’ve been so caught up gauging people’s motives, I never truly stopped to see the person behind my in-depth evaluation. Mr. Gregg taught me how to lower the number of casualties of my mistakes, but I was never shown how to handle other people’s errors.
Izzy is swimming in waters way out of her depth, but that doesn’t mean she’s set to drown. She probably has a better chance of surviving the treacherous waters than I do because she can assess situations without the emotional baggage I carry into every assessment.
Not once the past six hours has she denied Isaac has an association with Henry Gottle, Sr. She merely presented valid points on how their connection can be explained, such as why Isaac was photographed meeting with Henry’s son, Henry, Jr., weeks ago.
Henry’s ex-wife, Delilah Winterbottom, commenced working at Destiny Records, the record label owned by Isaac’s business associate, Cormack McGregor, a month before Henry filed for divorce. Izzy believes Isaac did Henry the favor of getting Delilah out of his hair with the hope Henry would organize for his fighter, Jacob, to fight the current heavy-weight champion for this region, Curtis Parker. Henry, Jr. is a fight promoter. He could have contacts Isaac needs.
Since Isabelle’s conviction on the evidence was more plausible than fraudulent, I offer to write up a report on her findings and issue them to Alex before straying my eyes to the cause of my broken sleep the past month. “That’s one mystery solved. Now, onto the much bigger one.”
When Isabelle follows the direction of my gaze to the massive stack of Petretti files I’m itching to comb through, her eyes bulge when they float past the face of her watch. “Holy crap, it’s close to two in the morning.”
