Page 20 of Ruin
Selene
The restaurant is called Cavallo.
White tablecloths. Crystal stemware.
The kind of place where a single entrée costs more than my monthly grocery budget used to be and the waitstaff moves like ghosts—present when needed, invisible when not.
It's also a front for laundering six figures a month through inflated wine purchases.
I know this because I spent two months at Harvard mapping the financial structures of criminal organizations for a research paper that my professor called "disturbingly thorough." I didn't tell him I was studying for a career that doesn't appear in any law school brochure.
Cassius sits across from me in a charcoal-hued suit, looking like he was born in a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Next to him is Vincent—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, watching me with the careful neutrality of a man reserving judgment.
Peter and Paul flank the table's ends like matching bookends of who’d kill you before dessert, Peter with his scarred eyebrow and Paul with the split through his lip.
They're all looking at me.
Three days ago, I was on a plane from Boston.
Now I'm sitting at a table with four men who've collectively killed more people than I've had law professors, and the maitre d' just poured me a glass of wine that costs three hundred dollars a bottle.
I take a sip. It's fucking excellent.
"The problem," Vincent says, sliding a folder across the white tablecloth, "is the Galerie Noir."
I open the folder.
Property records, tax filings, bank statements.
The Galerie Noir is one of Cassius's art galleries, a sleek space in the Arts District that launders money through inflated appraisals and private sales. I scan the documents, and the issue jumps out within thirty seconds.
"You're using the same appraiser for every piece." I look up. "Every single transaction in the last eighteen months goes through Howard Clement. Same guy, same inflated numbers, same rubber stamp."
Vincent's expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. "And?"
"And if anyone at the IRS pulls that thread, the whole gallery unravels. One appraiser, consistent overvaluation, no independent verification—it's a textbook laundering pattern. A first-year forensic accountant could flag it."
Silence at the table.
Peter and Paul exchange a glance, and with it the kind of wordless communication twins develop, entire conversations compressed into a raised eyebrow.
Cassius sips his whiskey. Watching me. Always watching me.
"What would you suggest?" Vincent asks. His tone is careful. Not dismissive—he's too smart for that. But testing. Measuring.
"Three appraisers, rotated on a quarterly basis. Different firms, no overlapping clients. Vary the valuation ranges—not every piece needs to be a masterpiece. Some should come in low. That's what a legitimate gallery looks like: inconsistent, market-driven, human." I close the folder. "I can have a list of appraisers who won't ask questions by the end of the week. Two of them did appraisal work for a partner I interned under. He'd vouch for me."
More silence.
The restaurant hums around us. Clinking silverware, murmured conversations, a couple laughing two tables over, oblivious to the fact that they're eating dinner in the middle of a criminal strategy session.
"She's right," Vincent says finally. He doesn't look at me when he says it. He looks at Cassius. "It's a vulnerability."
"I know," Cassius says. Like he already saw it. Maybe he did. Maybe this was the test. Not whether I could spot the problem, but whether I could solve it in a way that earned Vincent's respect.
I take another sip of wine. "What else?"
