Page 16 of Silence and Surrender

“I’m drawing the same conclusions.” He moved closer, close enough that I caught the slight scent of his aftershave. I realized I’d never seen him with a hint of stubble. He was always impeccably clean-shaven. “And I know you’re being watched. That text this morning? They’re sending warnings.”

“How did you—”

“Because I’m watching you now, too.” His hand came up, almost touching my shoulder before dropping away. “Miss Delacroix...what we’re uncovering...it’s bigger than art fraud. Bigger than money laundering.”

“The weights,” I whispered. “The temperature controls. They’re moving something else.”

“Someone else.”

The word hung between us, heavy and horrible with its implications. With horror.

Trafficking.

In my heart, I knew. But my mind didn’t want to connect the dots.

“We need more proof,” I said. “Documentation. Evidence that will stand up in court.”

“Evidence gets people killed.”

“So does silence.” I met his gaze, unflinching. “I think my father died because he saw the same pattern. Because he asked questions. I won’t let that happen again.”

Something shifted behind his eyes, and I thought I saw respect or fear, maybe both. “Then we do this carefully. Secretively.”

“Like everything at Devereux Bank?”

“Exactly.” His lips curved slightly. “Hidden in plain sight.”

“Perfect lies.”

“Perfect truth,” he corrected. “That we’ll uncover.”

Outside the viewing room, footsteps echoed off the concrete. We stepped apart smoothly; nothing to interest anyone who might be watching.

“Let’s meet again tomorrow night,” he said at a normal volume. “We’ll review the authentication protocols.” More code. He wanted to dig into this further tomorrow after hours.

I nodded, gathering my tablet. But as I turned to leave, his hand brushed mine. Just for a moment.

“Be careful,” he murmured.

Then he walked away with measured steps, acting like everything was completely normal.

Chapter Nine

Colton

It was 3:00 a.m., and the bank’s legal floor was dark except for my office. The distant sound of vacuum cleaners echoed through empty corridors while Isabella Delacroix dismantled another one of my arguments with infuriating precision.

“Your approach is too cautious,” she argued, pacing in front of my desk. Hours of work had softened her usual polish—suit jacket discarded, peach-colored silk blouse untucked, hair falling loose around her face. “These manifests prove something’s wrong with the Rotterdam shipments.”

“They suggest,” I corrected, watching her move. “Nothing’s proven yet.”

She spun to face me, that familiar fire in her eyes. “Three identical weight discrepancies in two weeks. Temperature controls set for living cargo. How much more proof do you need?”

I refused to acknowledge how the city lights caught the elegant line of her throat, or how her cultured voice took on a fiercer edge when she was frustrated. “Proof that will stand up in court. Evidence that can’t be explained away by accounting errors.”

“While we gather evidence, they’re moving more girls.”

“And if we move too fast, we lose any chance of catching them.” I stood, needing to match her energy. “You know how this works. One wrong move and they destroy everything. There’ll be no evidence left, anywhere. We have to play their game, only faster. Better.”

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