The Mafia's Undoing-Chapter 37: Keeping Secrets

The afternoon light through the brownstone windows turns everything golden, but I can’t shake the cold settling in my bones.

My laptop screen glows with half-finished job applications and cover letters that sound hollow, even to me. Experienced financial analyst seeking opportunities... Who am I kidding? My last position ended with federal investigations and dead bodies.

I close the browser and open a blank document instead. If no one will hire me, I’ll hire myself.

Katherine Blaire Consulting: Corporate Risk Assessment & Compliance.

The cursor blinks. Waiting.

I’ve spent six years learning how money moves through legitimate channels. And the last few months learning how it moves through illegitimate ones. Companies terrified of accidentally laundering cartel money or managing offshore accounts that trigger federal audits - they’d pay good money for someone who understands both worlds.

My phone buzzes. Elliot’s name flashes across the screen with a video call request.

I almost didn’t answer. Haven’t really talked to him since the Torrino building, since I killed someone in front of me, since our entire world exploded into violence and federal custody. What do you say to your autistic little brother after he knows you shot a woman?

But he’s persistent. The phone keeps buzzing.

I answer.

Elliot’s face fills the screen - thinner than I remember, with dark circles under his eyes, but his apartment, which is close to his school, is immaculate. Books arranged by height, engineering models perfectly aligned on shelves. His safe space, precisely as he needs it.

"Katherine." He doesn’t make eye contact; his gaze is fixed somewhere past the camera. "You look tired."

"Hi to you, too, El." I try for lightness, but my voice cracks. "How are you?"

"Functional." His fingers drummed against his desk in a rapid pattern. Stress behavior. "I’ve been... processing. Dr. Martins says what we experienced was traumatic. She uses that word a lot. Traumatic."

Guilt twists in my chest. "I’m so sorry you had to experience-"

"Don’t." His eyes flick to the camera briefly, then away. "You protected me. Statistically, we should both be dead. Your actions increased our survival probability by approximately eighty-seven percent."

Only Elliot would calculate the odds of our survival.

"I’ve been working on something," he continues, leaning closer to his own screen. "A puzzle. To help process... Dr. Martins says productive distraction is a healthy coping mechanism."

"What kind of puzzle?"

"Marcus Davidson’s financial movements." He shares his screen, and suddenly I’m looking at spreadsheets that make my brain hurt. Columns of numbers, dates, and transaction codes. "I’ve been tracking his accounts. There are public records, credit reports, and property transfers. He’s living above his means, really."

I lean forward, professional instinct kicking in. "Show me."

Elliot highlights a series of deposits. "Offshore account in the Cayman Islands. Regular transfers every two weeks. Twenty-five thousand dollars each. Started three years ago." His mouse traces the pattern. "Wire transfers from shell corporation - Silverton Holdings LLC."

My blood runs cold. "Silverton Holdings."

"You recognize it?"

"That’s..." I pull up my own files, hands shaking slightly. Marco mentioned that name. The same shell company Angelo used to pay off the coroner. "Elliot, that’s Torrino money."

His fingers stop drumming. "The family that-"

"Yes." I’m already cross-referencing, pulling up corporate registration documents. Silverton Holdings. Registered in Grand Cayman, beneficial ownership is hidden behind three layers of nominal directors. But if you trace back far enough..." My stomach drops. "Torrino Holdings is the parent company."

Elliot’s quiet for a long moment, processing. "Marcus Davidson has been receiving payments from the Torrino family for three years. Since before you even met Anthony Marvin."

The implications cascade like dominoes. Davidson didn’t just betray me by mere opportunity - this had been long-term, a calculated act. He was placed at Premier Financial specifically to identify and manipulate targets.

"There’s more," Elliot says quietly. "I tracked the IP addresses accessing Davidson’s accounts. Someone’s been monitoring them recently... just within the last seventy-two hours."

"Who?"

"Can’t tell for certain. However, the access patterns match those of someone checking whether payments are still being processed. Like... quality control." He meets my eyes through the screen, and I see fear there. Real fear. "Katherine, whoever’s paying Davidson is still active. Still watching."

The threatening email from this morning flashes through my mind. AT. Angelo Torrino.

But Luca said his father was dead. Luca helped us escape and stood against Angelo’s men. Unless...

"El, can you trace where these payments originated? Like, physically where they were initiated?"

His fingers fly across his keyboard. "Wire transfers have originating bank information. Give me a second." More typing. "Initial transfer points are... Grand Cayman National Bank. But there are domestic transfers too. Recent ones. Within the last week."

"From where?"

"New York. Manhattan, specifically." He looks up. "Katherine, whoever’s paying Davidson is here. In the city."

My mouth goes dry.

I should tell Tony. Right now. This is precisely the kind of information he needs.

But I can already picture his reaction - immediate lockdown, armed guards, Vincent shadowing my every move. The cage closing in, gilded and well-intentioned, but still a cage.

I proved I could handle myself at the restaurant with Davidson’s thugs. Called Luca, controlled the situation, got evidence. I can do this again.

"Elliot, can you send me everything you have... all the records?"

"Why?" His eyes narrow slightly. "What are you planning?"

"I’m going to talk to Luca." The decision crystallizes as I say it. "If his family is still paying Davidson, he needs to know. And I need to know if he’s been lying to me."

"Katherine." Elliot’s voice takes on that particular tone he uses when he thinks I’m being illogical. "That seems risky. You should tell Anthony."

"Tony will overreact. You know how he is." I’m already pulling up Luca’s contact. "I’ll meet Luca somewhere public during the day. A safe place."

"You’re keeping secrets from Anthony." Not a question... just an observation.

"I’m being capable." But even as I say it, I hear the echo of every justification Tony gave me when he hid the truth. I was protecting you. I didn’t want you to worry. I thought I could handle it alone.

The hypocrisy was glaringly obvious.

"Send me the files," I tell Elliot. "And El? Thank you. For caring enough to dig into this."

"You’re my sister." He says it simply, like it explains everything. Maybe it does. "Be careful. Statistically, confronting potential criminal conspirators without backup decreases survival probability by-"

"I love you too." I end the call before he can finish calculating my death odds.

Luca answers on the second ring. "Katherine. This is unexpected."

"We need to talk... about your family. About payments to Marcus Davidson." I keep my voice level. Professional. "Today. Somewhere public."

A pause. "That’s a serious accusation."

"It’s a serious question. Will you meet me or not?"

Another pause, longer this time. "Bella Vista on Fifth Avenue. One hour. I’ll be there."

He hangs up.

I stare at my phone, at Tony’s last text still visible: On my way home. Need to talk. Important.

I should wait. Should tell him where I’m going. Should-

No. I need to do this myself. Prove I’m not just someone who needs protecting. I’m someone who can stand beside him, handle threats, and make strategic calls.

I text Tony: Running a few errands. Back by dinner. Love you.

Three dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again.

Finally: Be safe. We really need to talk when you get home.

Guilt twists through me, but I ignore it. I’ve made my choice.

The restaurant is an upscale Italian establishment; the lunch crowd is thinning as I arrive. Floor-to-ceiling windows, white tablecloths, the kind of place where business deals happen over expensive wine.

The hostess leads me to a table by the window. Reserved under my name.

But Luca isn’t there.

Instead, Marcus Davidson sits in the chair across from where I’m supposed to sit, perfectly comfortable in his tailored suit, smiling like we’re old friends meeting for lunch.

"Hello, Katherine." He gestures to the empty seat. "Please, sit. Luca sends his apologies - urgent family business. He asked me to meet with you instead."

My hand moves toward my phone.

"I wouldn’t." Davidson’s smile doesn’t waver. "Look at the bar. The two gentlemen in dark suits. They’re with me. And they’re very good at what they do."

I look. Two men, watching. Hands resting near jacket pockets in a way that suggests weapons.

"So." Davidson leans back, signals the waiter for wine. "Let’s discuss your future, shall we? Angelo Torrino is very eager to speak with you. He has a business proposition. One I think you’ll find... compelling."

The restaurant suddenly feels very small, the windows very far away, and Tony’s text glows in my pocket like an accusation.

We really need to talk.

Too late. I’m already in too deep.