We would keep working, of course, but none of us had made any headway to date.
Except, perhaps, Ava.
Because she had heavy dark circles under her eyes, and though her cheeks were pinkened as if she’d spent too much time in the sun, her skin beneath that reddened patch was pale.
She glanced at Laila, who nodded encouragingly.
“We all know this isn’t about lettuce.” She tapped a button on the keyboard, and lines appeared on the screen, circling and highlighting data. I watched as the program ran, rearranging columns and shifting rows, pooling the information within until . . . holy shit.
My mouth dropped open. Because was that really—?
“This isn’t just about the Mikhailova clan,” she said. “It’s also about the Toscalo family.”
Eight
KTS Headquarters
Northeast England
15:09hrs local time
Ava
I stared at the screen, watching the program I’d spent every minute of the last week writing work. From the moment I’d first seen the correlation, the possibility that this ring had involved my family had been churning around in my head.
It was why I’d been so rattled during the incident with Dan.
The possibility had occurred to me that morning, one that seemed all too likely based on the knowledge I carried from my childhood. And even though I’d wanted to pretend it wasn’t the truth, wanted to avoid the reality that my family had dipped low even on their scale of despicable, the evidence was there.
They were working with the Mikhailova clan, and they were trading in people.
In. People.
Fucking disgusting.
And I’d grown up in their painful embrace.
I wanted to pretend to be unaffected and unbothered that the people who were responsible for my being on this planet were fucking evil.
Turned out, pretending didn’t make a fucking bit of difference.
Two weeks ago in Germany, I’d deduced the first piece, the tendril of a memory coming to the surface as my eyes had fallen onto a line of data. I’d remembered a code shown to me in boastful pride to hide protection money my family collected from the businesses on their streets, and . . . it had fit.
I’d needed to move, to take a break, to avoid the truth.
I’d gone to the gym that morning and I’d stumbled upon the very man who could so easily deduce that truth, could see too deeply, could perceive what was lurking beneath my calm mask.
Now I was about to share part of that truth, part of the secret I’d hidden from everyone save Laila. But even she didn’t know the full breadth of my depravity, couldn’t begin to understand all the things I’d seen and done and blindly turned an eye to.
The memories of those deeds, those horrible events, those actions I would never be able to make right, meant I’d ended up in the gym with a need to run and sweat and work myself into oblivion. I’d been so off my game and too easily read and frankly . . . too fucking fragile. So after that conversation in the gym, I’d known I’d needed to go, had needed space to think without constantly feeling rubbed raw by Dan and his presence.
I should have been able to lock down my emotions.
From the moment I’d been old enough to finally understand my family was cruel and involved in absolutely abhorrent things, from the moment I’d stopped blindly abiding them, from trying to be like them—of course that had come far too late and was something I would never forgive myself—I’d worked to shut off all my feelings. It was the only way to survive as I’d worked to distance myself from them, from the things they did, and to buy me time to find an escape route.
They’d seen, though, understood they were part of something that had disgusted me, and they’d tried all methods of manipulation and gaslighting to bring me to their side.
And when it became clear I would never abide by what they were doing, they’d—
“Holy shit,” Olive breathed, thankfully pulling me from my memories. “Is that their shipping pattern?”
I sucked in a silent breath, slowly released it, then nodded. “Yes,” I said, highlighting the columns. “These are the shipments we’ve been able to confirm from the last six months”—most of which KTS had arrived too fucking late to help the men, women, and children from being trafficked—“and I believe these are their scheduled drops for the next three months.” I pointed to a row. “This is an example of a planned pickup.” I gestured to another. “This, I think, is for a merchandise drop-off.”
Merchandise being people.
“Holy hell,” Olive said. “Why are they all in Italy?”
“And they’re definitely not for fucking lettuce,” Dan muttered. “How did you—?”
His eyes, an azure that reminded me of the deep blue water of the Mediterranean. I’d grown up overlooking that sea, first walking on the sandy shores and later keeping hold of the barest sliver of my sanity by staring out the crack in the stone wall I’d managed to carve out.
My fingertips ached, remembering how I’d bloodied my nails, scratching against that wall, hour after hour.
I’d grown up in the arms of the Italian mob, had been honed in the blood and violence of turf wars and money laundering and drug smuggling.
It had taken me years to find my way out, years more to find KTS.
But I’d been working with the agency for almost a decade, doing good things, finding a way to erase my blood-stained past. All it took was one source, one flash drive, one set of files, and I felt like I was dumped right back there.
In that cell.
In that darkness.
Just a sliver of the sea keeping me sane.
“They’re working with the Mikhailova,” I said. “It’s why we haven’t been able to shut the Russian ring down before. They’re not running it out of Russia. They’re running it out of Italy.”
Ryker, Laila’s husband and their most experienced agent, frowned. “Where are you getting your information?”
I couldn’t deny I felt a slice of relief that Ryker didn’t know my past. Laila was the only one who knew a little of how I’d grown up—or well, not the specific how when it came to cells and darkness and torture, but Laila knew that I had grown up in the fold of the mob. I had trusted her with that information before I’d allowed her to bring me to KTS, and she’d helped me build my cover as Ava Mills when I’d committed to the agency.
But my friend hadn’t told Ryker.
Even though they were married.
And that made the brittleness that had filled my bones dissipate slightly. How much to tell the team would be my decision.
But there wasn’t any doubt in this situation.
I would tell them everything I knew, anything that might be helpful. Because I’d left any loyalty to the Toscalos behind the moment I’d escaped that cell and gone to ground.
“My information is from someone directly linked to the Toscalo family,” I murmured.
“Who?” Dan asked.
Even with the determination to share, my pulse picked up, my throat went tight. I’d hidden this truth because I didn’t want anyone to think I was like them, to look at me differently because of my past.
But fuck if I was a coward.