Chapter 127
Diana's POV
I pulled over my legal pad, already sketching out a framework. "Three things. First, we pressure their legal cover. Silverpine uses Bergmann & Partners in Zurich for most of their European work. If we can prove conflict of interest—"
"Mr. Reynolds's team is already on it," Jack interrupted. "As of this morning, Bergmann & Partners received formal complaints from two former clients alleging ethical violations. The Swiss bar association will have to investigate."
I blinked. "That was fast."
"Mr. Reynolds moves quickly when someone threatens Miss Grant." Jack's tone was neutral, but I caught the subtext. This wasn't just business. This was personal.
"Second," I continued, "we freeze the money. European anti-money-laundering regulations allow for provisional seizures if we can show probable cause. Natasha, can you map the full financial network?"
"Give me forty-eight hours." She was already typing. "I'll have every account, every transfer, every holding company documented. If there's a euro with Silverpine's fingerprints on it, I'll find it."
"And third," I said, meeting Jack's eyes, "we find every victim. Katya's case isn't isolated. If we can build a class action—multiple jurisdictions, multiple plaintiffs—we create enough legal pressure that Silverpine's clients start abandoning ship."
David nodded slowly. "I can cross-reference missing persons reports, medical tourism complaints, unsolved disappearances. If there's a pattern, it'll surface."
The plan was taking shape. Not perfect, not guaranteed, but possible. For the first time in two years, I felt like I wasn't fighting alone in the dark.
---
By noon, my office looked like a war room. Papers covered every surface, three separate database searches ran simultaneously, and Sophia had switched from coffee to sandwiches. She dropped a plate on my desk with a meaningful look.
"You need to eat. You look like you're about to keel over."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. None of this is fine." She lowered her voice. "But what you're doing? Going after these bastards? That's fine. That's damn heroic."
I felt my throat tighten. "Soph—"
"Just eat the sandwich, boss." She squeezed my shoulder once, then returned to her desk.
I took a bite—turkey and avocado, my favorite—and felt the absurd urge to cry. My assistant knew my sandwich order. My team believed in this fight. I wasn't alone.
Jack appeared in the doorway, phone in hand. "I just got off with Rowan. He's coordinating with contacts in Luxembourg to expedite the asset freeze. Diana, this is solid work."
"It's not finished."
"No," he agreed. "But it's a hell of a foundation. Miss Grant was right about you."
I looked up sharply. "What did she say?"
"That you're the most principled lawyer she's ever met. That if anyone could find a way through Silverpine's defenses, it would be you." He paused. "She's grateful. For this. For fighting when others gave up."
Something warm and painful bloomed in my chest. Lena—brilliant, guarded, wounded Lena—trusted me with this. Believed I could deliver what I'd failed to deliver for Katya.
I wouldn't fail again.
"Tell her we're just getting started," I said.
---
At 4:47 PM, my phone rang. Unknown number.
I almost didn't answer—too many journalists, too many scam calls. But instinct made me pick up.
"Diana Clarke."
Silence. Then a woman's voice, low and careful. "Ms. Clarke, I need to speak with you about Silverpine Advisory Group."
I sat up straighter, waving frantically at Jack across the room. He immediately moved closer, pulling out a recording device with a questioning look. I nodded.
"I'm listening."
"I can't give you my name. Not yet. But I worked for them—Silverpine—for three years. I know how they operate. The shell companies, the fixers, the clients." A pause. "I know what they did to people like Katya Ivanov."
My pulse hammered. "Why are you calling me?"
"Because I'm done being part of it. And because I have documents. Internal emails, financial records, client lists. Everything you'd need to prove the enterprise."
Too good to be true. Had to be.
"What do you want in exchange?"
"Protection. Immunity from prosecution for my role. And help disappearing after I testify." Her voice shook slightly. "If Silverpine finds out I'm talking to you, I'm dead."
I met Jack's eyes. He looked as wary as I felt.
"We need to verify your information first," I said carefully. "Can you send a sample? Something that proves you have access to real documents?"
"Tomorrow. I'll email you something small—low-risk. If you think it's credible, we'll arrange a meeting. Somewhere public. Neutral ground."
"Agreed. What should I call you?"
"Raven." A bitter laugh. "Not my real name, obviously. But it'll do."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, mind racing.
"Could be genuine," Jack said slowly. "Or it's bait. Silverpine trying to see how much we know."
"Or both." I pulled up my contacts, scrolling to Lena's number. "Either way, we need to loop in everyone. Conference call, tomorrow morning, before Raven's email arrives."
Jack nodded. "I'll coordinate with Rowan's team. Diana—if this is real, if we get those documents—"
"We'll bury them." I thought of Katya's scar, Lena's terrified face in those childhood photos, all the nameless victims scattered across continents. "Every last one of them."
I sent the text to Lena: Need to talk. Tomorrow, 9 AM. It's urgent.
Her reply came instantly: I'll be there.
I looked around my office—at the files, the laptops, the half-eaten sandwiches and cold coffee. At Sophia tidying up in the outer room, at Natasha still hunched over financial statements, at David's screens full of data patterns.
This was what justice looked like before it arrived. Messy. Exhausting. Fueled by coffee and fury and the stubborn refusal to let monsters win.
"Sophia," I called. "Can you order dinner? We're going to be here late."
She appeared in the doorway, already pulling up a delivery app. "Thai or Italian?"
"Both. And extra spring rolls."
"That's my girl." She grinned. "Let's feed this army."
I turned back to the Ivanov file, but this time I also pulled up the notes from today—the overlapping payment, the pattern of fixers, the trail to Luxembourg. Old wounds were becoming new weapons.
And tomorrow, maybe, we'd get the arsenal we needed to finally win.