Page 13 of The Bratva Betrayal

People clean up what they think matters. They don’t always think about what sits underneath it. It doesn’t take long to find it.

A few clicks. A few timestamps.

Small things.

But they add up.

Emails opened for seconds at a time, internal threads, nothing she should even know exists. Folders accessed and closed just as quickly. Shipment logs pulled up and skimmed.

She didn’t take anything. Didn’t forward anything. Didn’t leave anything obvious behind.

But she looked.

At things that matter.

“She knew where to go,” I mutter.

This wasn’t curiosity or boredom. She wasn’t clicking around, hoping to stumble into something useful.

She went straight to it.

Which means she either already has information or she’s trying to confirm it.

Neither option works in her favor.

Or mine.

I close out of the logs and pull up the camera feeds next. The footage rolls back smoothly, flickering through empty hallways and dark rooms before landing on her.

She moves without hesitation. She doesn’t creep along the walls or pause at corners.

My eyes narrow as I watch her slip into the office, closing the door behind her.

Enough time passes that if she wanted to do real damage, she could have.

But she didn’t. At least not in a way I can see.

I rewind it, watching her again, focusing on the details this time. The way she holds herself, the way she moves, and there’s no panic in it.

No rush.

She wasn’t worried about getting caught.

Which means she either underestimated me or she didn’t care if I saw her.

Neither sits right with me.

I turn off the footage.

Cady Gallagher.

Irish mob princess.

Late twenties.

Too polished to be naive.

Too careful to be reckless.