The files Conti handed over filled three folders, but it was the smallest one that mattered most.
Back at the hotel overlooking the harbor, Valentina spread the pages across the bed while Damien stood at the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in low, clipped Italian to someone she assumed was one of his people back in Rome. She'd learned enough of his rhythms in two weeks of marriage to recognize when he was giving orders rather than requesting favors.
"Your uncle set up four accounts under the name Andre Volkov," she said when he finally hung up. "All routed through a private bank in Geneva. Two of them are still active."
Damien crossed to the bed, studying the pages over her shoulder. "Volkov. That's not a name I've encountered before."
"Neither had I, until an hour ago." Val
