“Good. When it’s finished, go to Ramirez. Tell him there’s a revised document—something new, something time-sensitive. He opens it while you’re nearby, the bug does its thing.”
“And if he pushes back?”
“Tell him the update is critical,” Seth says, yawning. “Say the changes address a compliance issue. International regulations, cross-border transfers—whatever sounds annoying enough that he believes you. If he delays, you can mention that it’s the kind of oversight that flags regulators. SEC, foreign banks—and that’s the last thing he wants.”
I nod to myself, already forming the lie. “A revised shell corp draft.”
“Exactly,” Seth says. “Once he opens it, you’ve got twenty minutes. If he scrolls through anything suspicious, you’ll have it.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I ask.
“Then we pivot,” Ruby says. “But this gives you your best shot without needed access credentials.”
My phone buzzes again—calendar alert. Time to meet Moretti.
“Thanks,” I say. “Both of you. I’ll update you later.”
I end the call and pocket the phone, stepping back into the sunlight and toward the café. The morning crowd thickens, voices rising, vendors hawking espresso and festival masks in bursts of color. I weave between them, trying to focus on Moretti and the mission with Ramirez.
But my thoughts won’t settle.
Even if this works—even if Ramirez opens the file and gives us what we need—I need to make sure Cybil doesn’t get caught in the middle.
Applause erupts ahead, drawing my attention to a street performerspinning in a white costume, a colorful mask hiding his face. Music spills from a nearby café. Locals cheer. It’s the kind of picturesque chaos tourists love to post about.
I skirt around the crowd, eyes sweeping the faces—out of habit more than intent. But I catch myself looking for her. It’s stupid. Reckless. I know that. Especially after the call I just had. Especially with Sammy Pawson somewhere out there. I didn’t see him this morning, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nearby. Watching.
The last thing I want is for Cybil to be anywhere near him or me while I’m working this case. And yet... some traitorous part of me hopes she’ll be standing at a corner, holding a coffee, smiling like we’re just two people on vacation. Like this is a moment instead of a mission.
Get your head straight, Ben. Remember who Cybil is working for and what they’re willing to do to protect their interests. She may not be an innocent bystander...
I don’t know what Earl Edmond is capable of—but I know what Ramirez is. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t send emails. He sends Sammy Pawson.
I stop in front of a busypanetteria, and the scent of warm bread and sugar perfumes the air. But it’s not the smell that holds me still.
A man in gray slacks and a black shirt leans against a post across the street. Fedora pulled low over his brow. Not monitoring the bakery. Not paying attention to the crowd. Watchingme.
My pulse spikes. I search my memory. Nothing. I don’t recognize him. And that’s a problem.
I cross the street, moving casually, as if I haven’t clocked him. Ten feet later, he follows. Not a coincidence—I’m being tailed.
How long? And by whom?
It’s not Pawson. But it could be someone who works for him. Someone paid to watch. Or worse. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a network here—men in suits with local accents and clean knives.
Guys who don’t ask questions.
They just find you.
And make sure no one ever does again.
Chapter 15
Cybil
Lagoverde, Italy
Friday morning
