"Julian Orozco drove a van for his cousin," Angelina says quietly. "Thought it was furniture. Didn't know there were girls in the back until border patrol opened the doors." She pauses. "I gave him eighteen months. He served six."
I wait.
"He wasn't innocent. But he wasn't the one who loaded that van. He wasn't the one who sold those girls." Angelina's jaw tightens. "Someone handed him the keys and pointed him at the highway and he was too desperate or too stupid to ask questions."
"You think she's the same."
"I think someone handed her a target list and she was too broken to ask who was holding the pen." Angelina finally looks at me. "It doesn't make her innocent. But it makes her a weapon someone else aimed."
The observation room feels colder.
My phone buzzes. Vanessa's voice, tighter now: "Just got off with Holloway. He's meeting Monroe tonight."
thirty-two
Angelina
"And today we find out if I'm right."
Agent Dennis Holloway stands at the head of the conference table, arms crossed. Mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair cut regulation-short, suit that says government salary but tailored well enough to suggest he cares about appearances.
CPG's conference room looks like every corporate security firm I've toured during threat assessments. Glass walls, neutral carpet, a table long enough to seat twenty. Equipment cases line one wall in neat rows, the only hint that "Centurion Protection Group" does more than executive security and risk management.
"Judge Castellano." Kade nods toward Holloway. "Agent Holloway, FBI counterintelligence. He's had suspicions about Monroe for months, but couldn't prove anything until Vanessa's data gave us the paper trail."
Holloway extends his hand. His grip is firm, assessing. "Kade's told me about your rulings. The Torres case. Impressive sentencing."
"I had good evidence to work with."
"You had leverage. You used it." He nods once. "Not everyone does."
"Victoria?" I ask Kade.
"Damian's with her. She's not going anywhere."
Movement at the door pulls my attention.
Cole walks in.
And I—
Oh.
Charcoal wool. The jacket fits him like it was made for his body alone, broad through the chest, narrowing at the waist. No tie. Top button undone, exposing the hollow of his throat. That small concession to informality makes the rest of it sharper by contrast.
He moves the same way. Controlled. Each step deliberate, weight centered, the economy of motion I've watched for weeks now. But wrapped in fabric that looks like it cost someone's monthly salary, he looks like something else entirely. Something that belongs in boardrooms and private clubs.
"Monroe's ten minutes out." Cole's voice cuts through the room. He's addressing Kade, but his gaze finds me. Holds. "Holloway's team has eyes on him."
"Good." Kade checks something on his tablet. "We're set."
I realize I'm staring.
"I didn't know you owned a suit."
Cole's dark eyes don't leave mine. "I own several."
Heat crawls up my neck. "You could have mentioned that."