The news played on mute in my office. Local nursing home resident Dmitri Volkov, 84, passed away peacefully in his sleep Tuesday night.
Three days since I'd given the order. Three days since I'd crossed a line I could never uncross.
I stared at my reflection in the window. Dmitri Kozlov was dead because I'd willed it so. Not in self-defense, not in battle, as a calculated business decision. I'd identified a threat and eliminated it.
The girl who'd defended a bullied kid in a cafeteria felt very far away.
"Miss Falco?" Maria knocked softly. "The financial team is ready."
The conference room was full, five accountants in expensive suits, spreadsheets glowing on screens. These men transformed blood money into legitimate wealth.
For two hours, I absorbed everything. Money laundering thro
