Carlo Moretti ignored my husband’s breakdown and locked his dark eyes onto the small black drive dangling from my fingers.

“What the hell is on that thing?” he demanded, though a tremor of unease had infiltrated his bravado.

“Everything,” I said simply.

“Digital copies of falsified construction invoices. Doctored city safety inspections. A very detailed, chronologically sorted bribery ledger.

Traceable bank wire transfers.

And, perhaps most entertainingly, hundreds of private, timestamped messages between your lovely daughter and my husband, actively conspiring to drain my marital assets and leave me destitute before serving me with divorce papers.”

Elena’s lips trembled violently. “You’re… you’re bluffing. You’re lying. You couldn’t possibly have access to those servers.”