Chapter Twenty-Six: The Documents

Victor's evidence filled three boxes.

Felix spread everything across the conference table. Documents. Photographs. Recordings. Letters. Bank statements. Everything my mother had gathered before she died—and everything Victor had kept hidden for fifteen years.

I stood at the head of the table. Adrian was beside me. Sloane was by the door. Felix, Priya, and Marcus sat with notebooks open.

"This is everything," Felix said. "Everything Victor had. Everything your mother collected. Everything we need."

I walked around the table. I picked up a photograph. My mother. Standing outside a building I didn't recognize. She was smiling. She looked happy.

I set it down.

"Start from the beginning," I said. "Walk me through it."

Felix nodded. He opened a folder.

"Your mother began investigating Henry Ashford three years before her death. She suspected him of fraud. Money laundering. Connections to organized crime."

"She was right."

"She was. She documented everything. Meetings. Transactions. Names. Dates. She built a case that would have destroyed him."

"But she never got to use it."

"No. She died before she could."

I looked at the evidence. The photographs. The documents. The recordings.

"What about Julian?" I asked.

Felix pulled out another folder. "Julian was involved from the beginning. He helped his father cover up the crimes. He helped move money. He helped destroy evidence."

"And Mira?"

"Mira was a pawn. She didn't know the full extent of what Julian was doing. But she knew enough. She helped siphon money from the trust fund. She helped keep you distracted."

I nodded. I'd suspected as much.

"What about Volkov?"

Felix's expression changed. "Volkov is different. He's not just a criminal. He's a partner. He and Henry built an empire together. Drugs. Weapons. Money laundering. Everything."

"And Julian?"

"Julian was the legitimate face. He ran the businesses. He kept the accounts. He made sure everything looked clean."

I sat down. I looked at the evidence. The photographs. The documents. The recordings.

"We have everything," I said. "We have enough to destroy all of them."

Adrian spoke for the first time. "We have enough to destroy Henry. We have enough to destroy Julian. But Volkov is different."

"How?"

"He's not going to go quietly. He's not going to let us take everything from him. He's going to fight."

"Then we fight back."

Adrian looked at me. His eyes were dark. Unreadable.

"You're not afraid," he said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I've already died once. I'm not afraid of dying again."

He held my gaze. Neither of us spoke.

"We need a plan," Felix said. "A real plan. Not just evidence. Not just exposure. We need to take them down piece by piece."

I nodded. "Then that's what we'll do."

---

The next three days were chaos.

Felix worked with Priya and Marcus to organize the evidence. They built a timeline. They connected the dots. They prepared a dossier that would make Henry Ashford's crimes impossible to deny.

Sloane coordinated with Adrian's legal team. They prepared filings. They contacted journalists. They made sure every piece of evidence was airtight.

Adrian worked around the clock. He didn't sleep. He barely ate. He just worked.

I worked beside him. I provided every detail I could remember. Names. Dates. Conversations. I gave them everything.

On the second night, I found Adrian in his office at midnight. He was staring at a photograph. Henry and Volkov. Shaking hands.

"You should sleep," I said.

"So should you."

I walked to his desk. I sat across from him.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked.

He didn't answer immediately. He just looked at the photograph.

"My father," he said. "He trusted Henry. He thought they were friends. And then Henry destroyed him."

"How?"

"He framed him. For fraud. For embezzlement. For things he didn't do. My father lost everything. His company. His reputation. His will to live."

I didn't respond. I just waited.

"He died three years later. A heart attack. The doctors said it was stress. I knew it was Henry."

I reached across the desk. I didn't take his hand. I just rested my fingers near his. Close enough to touch. Not touching.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He looked at me. His eyes were dark. Unreadable.

"I don't want your pity," he said.

"I'm not offering pity. I'm offering understanding."

He held my gaze. Neither of us spoke.

After a while, he said, "When this is over—when Henry is destroyed, when Julian is destroyed, when Volkov is neutralized—what do you want?"

I considered the question. I'd been so focused on the goal. On the revenge. On the endgame. I hadn't thought about what came after.

"I don't know," I said.

"Then figure it out."

"I'm trying."

He reached for my hand. This time, he took it. His fingers were warm. Steady.

"I'll help you," he said.

I looked at our hands. I looked at him.

"Okay," I said.

We sat there. The photograph of Henry and Volkov watched us from the desk. The city hummed outside. The clock ticked.

After a while, I leaned my head against his shoulder. He didn't move. He just let me.

We stayed there until the sun came up.