Page 33 of Ruin
Marco Salieri. Runs the protection rackets on the east side. Loyal, but loud.
"With all due respect," Marco says, and nothing good has ever followed those words, "who is she?"
Cassius doesn't answer. He looks at me.
My cue.
"Three days ago, Gerald Fink was sitting in a chair at the end of the east corridor, waiting to lose something more valuable than money." I keep my voice level. Conversational. Like I'm discussing wine selections. "Now he's restructuring his debt, his restaurant is still operational, and he's generating revenue on a monthly audit cycle that benefits the entire organization. Not because someone broke his fingers. Because I gave him a better option."
Marco's jaw works. "So you're, what, an accountant?"
"I'm the reason Councilman Rivera fast-tracked your east side building permits without costing this organization a single dollar." I take a sip of wine. "You're welcome, by the way."
Silence. Marco looks at Cassius. Cassius's expression hasn't changed.
A woman near the middle of the table speaks.
Dark hair, sharp suit, rings on every finger.
Natalia Cruz.
She runs the gallery operations. "The Galerie Noir appraiser rotation. That was you?"
"Three firms, quarterly rotation, varied valuations. Yes."
"Vincent mentioned it this morning. I've been telling him about the Clement problem for six months." She gives Vincent a pointed look. "Nice to know someone listened."
A murmur moves through the table. Not acceptance. Not yet. But the resistance has shifted from hostility to curiosity.
They're not asking why I'm here anymore. They're asking what I can do.
That's the opening I need.
"You have a customs vulnerability at the docks," I say to the table. Not to Cassius. To them. "You have three galleries running identical laundering patterns that a competent federal agent could dismantle in a week. You have cash sitting in safes losing value instead of being cleaned through real estate investments that would generate legitimate returns. And you have a Russian operation pushing into your territory while your legal infrastructure is held together with duct tape and hope."
Total silence. Even the candles seem to stop flickering.
"I spent a year at Harvard studying exactly how operations like this get taken apart," I continue. "And now I'm going to use everything I learned to make sure that doesn't happen to yours."
The room exhales. Not all at once. In pieces. A shift in posture here, an uncrossed arm there. Marco is still frowning, but it's a different kind of frown now. Thinking, not dismissing.
Cassius sits down, takes his whiskey and drinks.
"Questions," he says to the table. One word. It’s both an invitation and a dare.
They have questions.
A lot of them.
For the next two hours, I field them.
Tax strategies, customs protocols, the legal exposure of their distribution network, the Rivera situation, the real estate framework.
Natalia asks sharp questions about the gallery operations.
A dock captain named Harris grills me on the port vulnerability.
Marco, grudgingly, asks about the protection racket's legal exposure if a federal task force starts sniffing around.
