Chapter 97

Ethan

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, reached for the paper coffee cup for the third time before remembering—also for the third time—that it was empty.

Dammit.

The printed text of the case files sprawled across my desk was starting to blur before my eyes. Probably the dim lighting didn’t help; the precinct, in an attempt to save money, was choosy in the lights they kept on after hours. My remote hallway wasn’t one of them, so my faded desk lamp and the dim glow from my laptop monitor were the only illumination on this side of the building.

But still, I couldn’t go home. Not yet.

Something about these Rossetti crime scenes was gnawing at me, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. The attacks on the Marcello family were brutal, calculated, and relentless, but something didn’t add up.

At first glance, the evidence pointed to a Joker-style level of chaos. Witness reports, surveillance footage, and first responder reports from the crime scenes all indicated the same things:

No major deaths. No significant robberies. The targets were high-profile Marcello operations, yet the Rossetti crew seemed more interested in leaving chaos behind than in actual destruction.

“So … what’s the point?” I muttered

I rubbed at my eyes again as I scanned the reports. The damage inflicted was enough to send a message but never enough to cripple the Marcello family’s operations.

So … what was the damn point? I’d been half joking when I’d told Aldo that Rossetti was just trying to get his panties in a twist because, honestly, no one went to this level of trouble—spent this much money—without some kind of goal.

I clicked on the surveillance footage from the most recent nightclub attack. The Rossetti men had stormed the place, firing into the ceiling and sending patrons scrambling, but they’d barely touched the cash reserves or the high-end merchandise.

Instead, they’d ransacked the office, pulling books off the shelves, scattering documents, sending the poor accountant into a trembling heap under his desk.

Why?

I replayed the footage, this time focusing on the people in the background. Unsurprisingly, familiar faces dotted the fleeing crowd—men I’d seen at Aldo Marcello’s side, at his estate, surrounding his car …

But that wasn’t news.

I had spent years studying organized crime and knew the Marcello name was whispered in the darkest corners of the underworld. Aldo Marcello wasn’t just a businessman with questionable ties—he was a man who thrived in the shadows.

Hell, everybody knew that. We’d never been able to pin anything on him—evidence was always mysteriously disappearing around him. Or else the people handling it had suddenly changed careers, taken long vacations, gone very quiet.

I sat up straighter than a fence post.

Evidence.

I stood up so fast I nearly upset my chair out from under me. Empty coffee cup forgotten, I hurtled towards the door. My boots thundered on the tile as I raced down the darkened hallway towards the evidence lockup.

What if this wasn’t about death or destruction, money, robberies, territories, or even psychological warfare? What if it was as simple as … evidence?

I was panting by the time I stood in front of Jerry at the evidence desk. “I need everything recovered from the nightclub shooting.”

“You in a rush, boss?” Jerry never did anything in a rush. Why would evidence recovery be something that required rushing?

“Not technically,” I puffed. One might have imagined I didn’t run ten miles a day. “But yes.”

“Loud and clear.” Jerry moved off at approximately a sloth’s pace, and I drummed my fingers against the countertop while I waited for him to return. Took half a lifetime, but he finally did return—with a pile of papers half the size of the Empire State Building.

I held in a groan. Looked like another night without sleep. But I thanked Jerry, hefted the papers, and returned to my own office.

As it happened, I wouldn’t need all night to confirm my suspicions. Because this stack of papers, the papers that had been dislodged and scattered across the nightclub floor, were without a doubt, evidence.

Evidence that could tie the Marcellos to criminal activity. Nothing crazy, no murders or extortions or anything like that. More like, illegal shipments. Hidden cash transactions. Links to shell companies—accounting bullshit.

Evidence all the same.

And a new light on my new case.

Rossetti wasn’t trying to wipe out the Marcellos—he was trying to lead the police to them. He was leaving a goddamn breadcrumb trail.

It was brilliant, really. He was too small to topple the Marcello empire the way any larger family might have tried—through open and brutal warfare. No, instead, he was going to let the police do it for him.

I sifted through the stack of documents, retreating back through the years until suddenly Aldo’s name wasn’t the one on the documents. Nor was his father, Georgio. No, there was a third name.

An unfamiliar name.

Matteo Marcello.

I didn’t know it. So why did the sight of it—the sight of that slashed signature across the dotted line—raise the hair on my arms?

Matteo Marcello.

I turned to my computer, dove into the police database, my fingers flying over the keys. He existed—and his file was locked up tight behind all kinds of bureaucratic red tape so far above my pay grade, it was practically a waving red flag to his guilt and ties to the family.

But … who was he?

I turned to the internet instead, my fingers hacking away at those keys as I typed out his name. Again, a lot of hinted information, most of which had probably been redacted by the persuasion of a lot of money. Took me several pages of scrolling before I finally found something.

A photo, to go along with the name.

My breath caught at the sight of the man staring back at me from behind the screen. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Aldo Marcello, but he was different. The man’s sharp features and dark eyes mirrored Aldo’s, but there was something different—something colder.

A brother, perhaps? The man was young, but the photo was probably a good ten years old, which might place him a few years older than Aldo. But if he was older, why was Aldo running the Marcello empire?

Dead? Was he dead?

I scratched at my chin. No, that didn’t feel right. I didn’t know why, but some deep-rooted inner instinct told me that wasn’t right. It was the same instinct that had led my career down the road to success.

Plus …

I turned away from my computer to study the most recent attacks.

They were so precise, so well planned. Some of them were almost too well planned, like the work of someone with deep-rooted inner knowledge of the family and its holdings. Like they knew information the average person didn’t have.

Was there an insider?

My pulse quickened. I had spent years chasing ghosts, trying to expose Aldo’s criminal empire. Now, the Rossettis had handed me exactly what I needed.

So, why did something feel wrong about all of this? Why would some long-lost brother of Aldo’s be working against him?

What was I missing here, what wasn’t I seeing?

I saved the files and shut down my computer. I was getting closer to the truth. But with every step forward, the shadows deepened, and the danger grew. If I wasn’t careful, I wouldn’t just be exposing Aldo—I’d be stomping on a hornet’s nest with my bare toes.