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The question irritates me because it assumes omission where there may only be ignorance. The worst part is that I don’t know which one is true.

“No.”

“Think,” Roman pushes.

“I am thinking.”

“Think harder.”

Clara in bed beside me, pregnant and restless, one hand curved over her stomach while she listened to the house at night. Clara checking the nursery window after the staff had already done it. Clara refusing certain invitations from New York families, and I never cared enough to question her. Clara asking me once, very quietly, if I believed people could ever really leave the lives they were born into.

I answered as a Bratva man. “No.”

She said nothing afterward.

My throat tightens around the memory, but my voice remains calm. “There’s a box at the mansion of her things. Personal items. Papers she kept. I haven’t gone through it in years.”

“Go through it.”

“I will.”

“And Alexei.” Roman's voice grows more serious. “Don’t let grief make you sentimental. Search it like evidence.”

The words are cruel enough to be useful. “I know how to search evidence.”

“I’m aware.” He pauses. “That’s why I’m reminding you that this was your wife.”

The line goes quiet before Roman adds, “Find out who Clara was before she became Clara Bennett.”

He ends the call.

I lower the phone and sit motionless while the Black Tide entrance waits beyond the tinted glass. Men cross the loading area near the rear gates. Employees move through the lobby inside, carrying tablets, folders, coffee, and problems they believe matter today.

Viktor opens my door. I step out and button my jacket. I enter through the private side entrance. Conversations end before I reach the elevator. People move out of my way without looking like they’re doing it, which is the mark of good employees and frightened ones. Both serve a purpose.

By the time I reach the executive floor, Luka has already sent confirmation that Maggie arrived safely at the shelter. I read the message twice, then I put the phone away.

Sasha waits outside my office with a tablet in one hand and a folder in the other. As Black Tide's executive coordinator, she spends most of her days organizing problems before they reach my desk. One look at me and she adjusts whatever she planned to say.

“What do you need?” she asks.

Efficient and intelligent. One of the reasons she’s lasted this long.

“Conference room. Secure line. Pull Luka in remotely. Bring me everyone cleared for private research work.”

Her eyes dart toward Viktor, then back to me. “How many?”

“Enough.”

That’s all she needs.

Ten minutes later, six people sit around the secured conference room table. Sasha stands near the screen, Viktor remains by the door, and Luka appears on the wall monitor from the vehicle outside Second Chance Savannah, which tells me he positioned himself where he can see the entrance and still answer me.

I stand at the head of the table and look at each person once.

“Everything tied to Enzo DeLuca gets frozen, watched, or traced. I want every route, broker, shell company, port worker, driver, account, and favor he’s used in the last five years. If his name touched it, I want it in front of me.”

Sasha’s fingers move across the tablet. “His associates?”