I knew the name. Not well, not personally — but I’d seen it on a folder that week. Silva Holdings was one of the smaller firms tangled in the massive redevelopment deal I’d flown back to New York to close.

A deal involving condemned apartment blocks, emergency tenant removals, and a city councilman who smiled too much in photographs.

The forgotten report I’d come back for sat on the desk in its black leather binder. I opened it. On page thirteen, under subcontracted acquisition partners, was the name: Elias Silva.

Behind me, Anna sucked in a breath. “You know him?”

“No,” I said. “But apparently he knows me.”

Her knees nearly gave out; she caught the bedpost. The children stirred, sensing the terror in her even in sleep, and she bent over Sophia, whispering in rapid, gentle Portuguese while her hands shook.