Moretti’s expression hardened when he saw them.
I understood then.
The folder mattered to him too.
‘Your people are in this.’
‘Someone connected to my organization is.’
‘And David?’
‘Was useful to him.’
The word organization settled into the room differently now.
I thought of the deference on the airplane, the men at the gate, the constant flow of information, the invisible authority surrounding him.
I had heard the Moretti name before.
Not from David.
From local news years ago, whispered in stories about families that did not advertise what they controlled.
My eyes lifted to his.
‘You’re mafia.’
Elena stopped moving.
Moretti did not.
‘I am Vincent Moretti.’
It was neither confirmation nor denial.
It was enough.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped the floor.
‘No.’
Moretti remained seated.
‘I escaped one dangerous man.
I am not handing myself to another.’
‘Then don’t.’
I stared at him.
Again, no command.
He pushed the folder toward me.
‘It belongs to you.
Take it.’
Elena looked at him but said nothing.
‘You need this,’ I said.
‘I need what it proves.
I don’t need to own the person carrying it.’
The sentence struck harder than he could have known.
David had built his marriage around ownership.
My time.
My money.
My clothing.
My friendships.
My silence.
Moretti, a man I had every reason to fear, was giving evidence back to me when taking it would have been easier.
I sat again.
‘What happens if David gets it?’
‘He destroys it, denies the signatures, moves the money, and makes you the easiest person to blame.’
‘And if I keep it?’
‘You get counsel independent from me.
You preserve copies.
You document when and how you found it.
Then you decide whether to cooperate with authorities.’
I looked at Elena.
‘Independent from him?’
She nodded.
‘That would be my recommendation.’
For the first time since leaving Florida, my next step felt like more than running.
Then one of Moretti’s men entered the room.
