Chapter 8 - The Edit
Back in the Peninsula penthouse, the air was tense.
Sofía sat at the dining table, her laptop open, connected to the encrypted USB drive. Dmitry stood behind her, his hand resting lightly on the back of her chair. Lev was cleaning his weapon at the counter, while Agent Miller sat in the corner, handcuffed to a heavy radiator, watching them with wide, terrified eyes.
"The Cyprus ledger contains the routing numbers for twelve offshore banks," Sofía explained, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "These banks hold a combined total of $1.2 billion in untraceable assets. Currently, the beneficiary accounts are listed under your private holding companies, Dmitry."
"Change them," Dmitry said.
"To what?"
"To the private holding companies of the New York bosses, the senior partners of the law firms representing them, and..." Dmitry paused, looking over at Agent Miller. "...the personal offshore accounts of the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago Division."
Sofía stopped typing. She looked up at Dmitry, her eyes wide with realization.
"If I do that," she said, "the moment the FBI seizes these files, it won't look like you were laundering money. It will look like the New York syndicate and the senior leadership of the FBI were running a massive extortion scheme, using your companies as a front to steal billions."
"Exactly," Dmitry said, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "The Department of Justice will have no choice but to launch an internal investigation. The credibility of the entire regional office will be destroyed. The prosecution against me will collapse under the weight of the scandal, and the New York bosses will be too busy fighting federal indictments to worry about my assets."
"It’s brilliant," Sofía whispered, a strange sense of professional satisfaction washing over her. "But it’s highly illegal. It’s forgery on a global scale."
"It is risk management, Sofía," Dmitry corrected gently. "And you are the best risk analyst in the city. Can you do it?"
Sofía looked at the screen, then at her bandaged wrist, remembering the cold concrete of the slaughterhouse, the laughter of the Ivanov enforcers, and the simple, quiet life she had lost. She realized she couldn't go back to Lincoln Park. But she could build a new life, a safe life, if she played this final hand perfectly.
May you like
"I need three hours," she said.
"You have two," Dmitry replied, squeezing her shoulder gently. "Let’s begin."
