Page 35 of Silence and Surrender

His hand covered mine where it rested on the notebook, warm and steady. “We’ll find the truth, Isabella. Whatever it takes.”

The casual use of my first name sent a shiver through me. His forearm was near mine, lightly touching.

I forced myself to focus on the notebooks rather than how his touch affected me. “These companies—art dealers, private galleries, auction houses. All legitimate on paper, all with legal documentation.”

“The kind of paperwork that makes questions disappear,” he said.

“Exactly.” I pulled up the bank’s records on my laptop, aligning dates. “See the pattern? Every time one of these galleries made a major acquisition, there was a corresponding spike in wire transfers through numbered accounts.”

“Money laundering?”

“On the surface.” I shifted to show him another notebook, acutely aware of how the movement pressed my thigh against his. “But look at the amounts. Far more than even the most inflated art prices could justify.”

His other hand came to rest on the back of my chair as he studied the figures. The position effectively surrounded me, though I knew he wasn’t consciously trying to crowd my space.

“These dates,” he said, tapping the page. “They coincide with major shipping manifests. The ones with weight discrepancies.”

“Yes.” I pulled up more records on my laptop. “My father was tracking both, the financial trails and the shipping irregularities. He knew they were connected somehow.”

“And getting closer to understanding how.” Colton’s voice hardened. “Too close, apparently.”

I tensed at the reminder of how this had ended for my father. Colton’s hand squeezed mine tenderly, offering silent support.

“The shell companies are still active,” I said after a moment, needing to focus on facts rather than memories. “Still making suspicious art purchases. Still moving money through numbered accounts.”

“Can we trace the ownership?”

“That’s where it gets interesting.” I opened another file, conscious of how he shifted closer to see my screen. “Layers of holding companies, all carefully structured. But my father found a pattern in the incorporation dates.”

“Show me.” He uttered this command frequently, like he could never take anything at face value. Everything had to be proved, laid out so he could study it and draw his own conclusions.

I walked him through the complex web of shell corporations, trying to ignore how his breath tickled my skin when I leaned forward to point out key details. His chest brushed my shoulder as he reached past me to scroll through documents, and I caught myself holding my breath at the contact.

“These three companies,” he said, highlighting entries. “They were all incorporated within days of major leadership changes at the bank.”

“Yes.” I turned to face him, forgetting how close he was. Our faces were inches apart, and I could see deeply into those brown eyes. “Almost like...”

“Like the bank was creating new channels every time someone new joined the board,” he finished. His voice had dropped lower, rougher.

I found myself studying how his mouth curved when he concentrated, how his jawline had grown more pronounced since he’d started training.

“Isabella.” My name was barely a whisper.

“We should...” I swallowed hard. “We should check the other incorporation dates. Cross-reference them with bank records.”

“Yes.” But neither of us moved. The late hour and shared wine had created something intimate between us, making it hard to remember why we kept such careful distance at work.

A notification pinged on his laptop, breaking the moment. He straightened, checking the alert.

“Cooper’s contact came through with those shipping manifests from Rotterdam.”

“You finally told him?” Colton and I had debated on when to bring his brother on board, and I found his desire to protect his family added to his appeal.

“Yes—it was time.”

I took the opportunity to put some space between us, gathering scattered papers with hands that shook slightly. “Good. That gives us another angle to investigate.”

He started pulling up the new files, but I caught him watching me from the corner of his eye. The attraction between us was becoming harder to ignore, especially in settings like this—late nights and shared purpose and the way he looked with his sleeves rolled up.

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