Page 15 of Silence and Surrender

She set a thick folder on my desk. Customs documentation for next week’s shipments. All stamped, signed.

All lies.

“Thank you, Sari.” I waited until she left before opening the folder. More forged papers. More impossibilities.

My phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number:

Your father asked too many questions too.

A chill rippled through my body and settled in my core. I deleted the message with trembling fingers, then pulled up my father’s old notebooks on my tablet. The encrypted ones I’d scanned after his death.

There it was, five years ago. Notes about a series of art shipments that had bothered him. Weights that didn’t match manifests. Routes that made no sense.

Asked Geoffrey about temperature controls, he’d written.Why keep the cargo so cold? Art needs stable temperature, yes, but this...

The next entry was dated three weeks later. The last one before his heart attack.

My office door opened without so much as a knock. I jumped instantly, my heart leaping to my throat.

Moreau filled the doorframe, emitting restrained strength in a pressed navy suit. “Miss Delacroix. A word?”

His tone was professional, but his eyes...they were darker than normal, wider…something was wrong.

“Of course.” I gestured to the chair across from my desk, but he shook his head slightly.

“Walk with me?”

Understanding hit. Someone was watching my office. Watching me.

I grabbed my tablet, leaving my father’s notebooks locked in my desk. Colton’s hand brushed my back as we left—steadying, a slight warning. Maybe even a hint of possessiveness. I felt the warmth of his large palm through my blouse, and an unexpected tingle traveled down my body.

We took the elevator to the twentieth floor, the client storage level, where climate-controlled vaults held the bank’s legitimate collections. Our footsteps echoed off of steel and concrete.

“Your office is being monitored,” he said quietly.

“I know.” The text message burned in my memory. “Yours?”

“Probably not. I’m the bank’s own counsel. I’ve also been watching and I can’t find anything. I have my own security system in my office.” He guided me past the vaults, to a small viewing room used for client presentations. “But they’re definitely not watching client areas. Too boring.”

He closed the door, checked his phone, then set it facing down. “Let me see what you found.”

I pulled up the shipping manifests on my tablet. “The Vermeer transaction. Look at the payment structure.”

He studied the documents, his jaw tightening. “Multiple accounts. All under reporting limits.”

“Classic money laundering. But that’s not what concerns me.” I swiped to another file. “The shipping weights. The temperature controls. None of it matches what we’re supposedly moving.”

“And this.” He picked up his own phone. For a brief moment, an adorable gap-toothed little girl smiled up from his lockscreen, offering a rare glimpse of the man behind the power suit. I knew he wasn’t married, didn’t have children. The dark-haired girl must be a relative. But before I could ask, he quickly swiped and switched to his email. “Confirmation of receipt for the Monet. Dated this week, but signed by a customs officer who died three months ago.”

My hands shook slightly as I zoomed in on the signature. “They’re getting sloppy.”

“Or overly confident.” His voice hardened. “Your father. He investigated them before, didn’t he?”

I looked up quickly, confusion in my eyes.

“I’ve been reading old case files. Five years ago, Antoine Delacroix raised concerns about art shipments. Temperature-controlled cargo that didn’t match manifests.” His eyes met mine. “Three weeks later, he had a heart attack.”

“I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a heart attack.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

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