Chapter 9: The Recording
The man Gabriel sent to Ohio was named Petrov — not Russian, despite the name, but a quiet, methodical former army medic from Cleveland who had worked for the Rossi family for nine years and never once raised his voice.
He called at 6:14 in the morning.
"I have it," Petrov said.
"Any trouble?"
"The aunt made me tea and asked if I was Hannah's boyfriend.
I said no.
She seemed disappointed."
"Is the recording intact?"
"Playing it now." A pause.
Two voices, slightly muffled by age and compression but clear enough.
One of them was giving instructions.
The other was confirming amounts.
Dates were mentioned.
A specific account number was repeated twice.
"It's good, Gabriel.
This is very good."
"Bring it directly to Albany.
Use the clean car."
"Already driving."
Gabriel ended the call and knocked on the adjoining door.
Hannah opened it immediately.
She had been awake.
He told her.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and let out a breath that seemed to come from somewhere very deep.
"That recording plus the documents," Gabriel said, "is enough to open a federal investigation, take down two county officials, and expose Crane's entire financial structure.
But it needs to land with the right people."
"The FBI field office in Pittsburgh is compromised," she said.
"Not the Pittsburgh office.
The organized crime division in Washington." Gabriel sat down across from her.
"I have a contact there.
A woman named Reyes.
She's been building a case against mid-level operations in Pennsylvania for two years.
She needs a thread to pull.
You're holding the entire spool."
Hannah looked at him carefully.
"And you trust her?"
"I trust that she wants Crane more than she wants anything I've ever done," Gabriel said.
"Which makes her useful."
"You'd be handing federal investigators a gift," Hannah said.
"They'll look at you too."
"They already look at me," Gabriel said.
"I've been looked at for 15 years.
The difference is that this time, I'm the one making the introduction." He paused.
"It's a calculated risk.
But Crane tried to use someone inside my organization to get to you.
That is not something I can leave unanswered."
Hannah was quiet for a moment.
"What about DeLuca?" she said.
"DeLuca is being persuaded to take an extended vacation," Gabriel said.
"He won't be a problem."
"Persuaded how?"
"Firmly."
She almost smiled.
"Will he be all right?"
Gabriel looked at her.
"You're asking me if I hurt him."
"Yes."
"He has two bruised ribs and a very clear understanding of where his loyalties should lie," Gabriel said.
"He'll be fine."
She nodded slowly.
Then she looked at her hands.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
"About the diagnosis."
Gabriel went still.
"The bill you found was from seven months ago.
I've had two more appointments since then.
The last one was three weeks before I left the estate." She looked up.
"The treatment is working.
The numbers are moving in the right direction.
I'm not — I'm not dying, Gabriel.
I want you to know that.
I wasn't running because I was dying.
I was running because I didn't want you to find out I was sick and decide that I was your responsibility."
The room was very quiet.
"Why would that have been a problem?" Gabriel said.
"Because I didn't want to be something you felt obligated to," she said.
"I didn't want you to keep me on out of pity.
I didn't want—" She stopped.
Started again.
"I've spent three years being owned by Victor Crane in one way or another.
I needed to know that the one place I felt safe was a place I'd earned.
Not a place I was allowed to stay because someone felt sorry for me."
Gabriel looked at her for a long time.
"You stitched my arm," he said finally.
"In the middle of the night.
Without being asked.
Without flinching.
And then you went back to work." He paused.
"That is not the behavior of someone who needs to earn their place."
Hannah's eyes went bright.
She looked away quickly.
"The recording arrives in two hours," Gabriel said, his voice steady and quiet.
"After that, we make the call to Reyes.
And then this starts to end."
She nodded.
She didn't trust her voice yet.
Outside the window, Albany was waking up — traffic sounds, a distant siren, the thin grey light of early morning pressing through the curtain.
May you like
Petrov was two hours away with a shoebox.
And somewhere in Pittsburgh, Victor Crane was making his next move without knowing that his last one had already been made for him.
