The subpoenas arrived like winter — soft at first, then an avalanche. Marisol called it the only language that moved men with money: paperwork. The court demanded raw footage, server hashes, chain-of-custody logs. Julian’s lawyers argued for privacy. Our lawyers argued for sunlight. The judge sighed and ordered a sealed review; the files would be examined under court supervision. It sounded tidy until you remembered what “seized” meant: someone touching the ledger who might decide what stayed and what vanished.
That morning the safehouse hummed with a low, inevitable fear. Dominic had been up all night. His eyes had the tired, dangerous glitter they take on when he’s been living inside a plan. He paced like a man walking a tightrope built from bank statements and midnight favors.
“Mariso
