Page 73 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

He pauses, then continues, “…and after that, nothing. No new home purchases in any name we can trace. No new school records. No credit cards, driver’s licenses, social media, nothing.”

“We’ve contacted the forgers. Our document guys… they can’t trace anything either. We’ve scanned facial recognition on traffic cams in major cities in Utah. Again nothing.”

As I stare at the map of Utah on my screen, a thought occurs to me. What if he didn’t buy them a new life?

“What if he inserted them into an already existing life, Francesco? Somewhere they wouldn’t stand out?”

“We looked at off-grid communities. Churches, survivalist towns… everything. We found nothing, Capo.”

“Of course. We can’t exactly call around asking if anyone has seen a former New York socialite and her kids.”

I lean back in my chair, narrowing my eyes on the screen as my mind barrels down multiple routes. Then something hits me. Maybe we’ve been stuck because we think he hid them by himself. A smart man like that wouldn’t want any direct link between him and his family. He’d go through a middleman. Someone trusted.

Adrenaline surges in my veins as I lean forward, my attention locked on the burner phone. “Who does a powerful man like the ex-police commissioner call when he needs a forever favor?”

The line is silent for a while until Francesco breathes. “Not a friend… a debtor.”

Touché. “Someone he owned.”

“This man spent over half his life in the police system. He put a lot of people behind bars… but he also let some walk away.” The more I speak, the better the idea crystallizes in my head. “Cross-reference his cases. Look for the ones that ended… smoothly. Non-violent guys, the ones dangerous enough to commit crimes but calm enough to reason, the ones who got suspiciously light sentences. Then see where they ended up…We need someone who retired to a nice, quiet, isolated spot where a new cousin and her kids from back East wouldn’t raise a fucking eyebrow.”

“That will take a moment, Capo. I’ll ping you as soon as I have something.”

I end the call, dragging my hands down my face as my heart begins to pound fiercely. Something far greater is at stake now—Elena. We have to win. I will never forgive myself if a single hair on her head is touched.

I laugh bitterly at the irony of it all. I spent years plotting to bring her family down. Now I’m calculating how fast I can get back to her. What’s happening to my head? Or maybe the question is… what’s happening to my heart?

I don’t know how long I stay in the room, thoughts boiling through my mind, but when the burner phone vibrates again, I quickly answer it.

“What do you have?”

“There were a lot of people who met the criteria. But one stands out to me. Jeremiah Coulter.”

My fingers tighten around the phone.

“…Jeremiah was a fancy fraud artist; he ran charity scams after a hurricane. Faced twenty years. He gave the ex-commissioner testimony that buried a city councilman, and thereafter walked with just six months of house arrest.”

“House arrest? What house?”

“Says here... family ranch in Moon Hollow, Utah.”

Bingo!

Immediately, I jump into work, clicking until the map zooms in on a tiny dot in the middle of nowhere.

Moon Hollow. My jaw clenches. That’s got to be the fucking place.

The ex-commissioner sent his family to live under the protection of a man whose freedom he owned. Anything happens to them, and the man would be back in prison.

I must give the ex-commissioner his fucking flowers; he was smart. But obviously not that smart.

Clenching my fist, I power off the computer and disconnect the server, grabbing my Glock from a safe below the desk.

“Looks like I’m going to pay Jeremiah a visit.”

Chapter twenty-five

Elena