Stefano inclines his head, accepting the apology.
“We established a shipping company in Cincinnati, Ohio, seven years ago,” I begin. “Officially, we transported merchandise to major retailers throughout the eastern United States. Furniture, clothing, appliances, food. Anything that could be loaded onto a truck and delivered without attracting attention.”
“And unofficially?” Foster asks.
“It served as the foundation for an extraction network.”
Skip stops pacing.
“What kind of extraction network?”
“The kind that removed people from places they were unlikely to survive.”
No one interrupts as I rise from my chair and walk toward the windows.
“Interpreters whose names had been handed to enemy forces. Journalists who exposed the wrong government officials. Religious minorities being hunted for their beliefs. Women threatened with execution for attempting to escape abusive husbands. Children who were going to be forced into militias.”
“Refugees,” Spike says.
“Some of them,” I answer. “Others would never have survived long enough to earn that designation. Governments make people complete paperwork, attend interviews, and wait months…or years…for permission to flee. The people we helped didn’t have years. Some of them didn’t have days.”
“So you smuggled them into the country?” Bones asks.
“We rescued them,” Stefano corrects sharply. “There’s a difference.”
“Legally, there really isn’t,” Foster points out.
“Which is why we didn’t ask the law for permission,” I say.
Rules and regulations mean very little to a person with a gun pressed against their head.
“It wasn’t our cleanest operation. We bribed border officials, falsified travel documents, altered shipping manifests, and moved people through warehouses that never appeared on any Moretti record.”
The Shadows listen without interruption.
“But we never stuffed desperate families inside cargo containers or treated them like merchandise. They traveled in secured vehicles with food, water, medical care, and armed protection. Once they reached this country, we gave them new identities and transported them to homes scattered across the eastern United States. We found them jobs, enrolled their children in school, and gave them enough money to begin again.”
“We didn’t charge them,” Stefano adds. “Not one dollar.”
“Then why shut it down?” Spike asks.
“Because the man managing the company began accepting money from people who wanted access to our routes,” I explain. “He stopped caring who was being transported or why. Helping desperate families was no longer enough for him. He wanted profit.”
“And profit attracts monsters,” Stefano says.
“He tried to turn our rescue network into a trafficking route. Drugs, weapons, women. He didn’t care what moved through those warehouses as long as someone paid him. The very routes we created to carry vulnerable people to safety were being used to transport others directly into hell. We couldn’t allow it.
“Damn!” Skip whispers.
“Yes,” Stefano answers coldly. “I shut down every warehouse, destroyed every record, dismantled the routes, and personally ensured he would never exploit another person.”
His voice doesn’t change, but I know my brother well enough to hear what the other men can’t.
Stefano remembers every detail.
He remembers the people who were harmed because someone we trusted became greedy. He remembers believing it was his fault because the operation had been under his control when the betrayal occurred.
It wasn’t.
