A few days after the fantastic sex in the limo, all the boys are out and busy. I’m done with my meetings, and I’m wandering around the mansion, a little bored—and a little horny.

It’s now or never. If I’m going to find something on them, I need to do it now. I’m finally angry and suspicious enough to go snooping.

I hope I find something—something to help me make my decision.

To stay, or to go? Run back to the agency, or just run?

I’m kidding myself though, really.

Hunting for information and actually having them convicted are two different things.

I snoop around Antonio’s art studio and Franco’s study. I don’t find much.

I’ve saved the best for last—Marco’s office.

If there are records to be found, they’ll be here.

All the recent documents from the last few years are easy to locate. Marco’s left his computer open, and I’m surprised to find the only evidence to be found is positive.

Receipts of legitimate deals, new buildings, deeds, passports. All legal documents.

It looks like they’ve been offering no interest loans and legal services to people of limited means and assisting refugees. There’s no evidence of violence or force…but there wouldn’t be, would there? Not if they’re as well organized as I’ve observed.

I start rummaging through older boxes stacked against the wall. Most of these are handwritten, the paper turning brown. This stuff looks far more incriminating.

It seems Papa kept excellent records of everything, illegal or not. We have gambling debts, references to broken bones and other nasty business suffered upon those who can’t pay up.

Through all of these old notes, there’s a continued reference to ‘Watch Dog’.

Someone who greases wheels and allows ships full of refugees in so they can be sold into slavery. Who blinds the eye of the law at just the right time to let the gambling or fighting rings get under cover. This Watch Dog shields them from police, offers safe houses, and takes about sixty percent of the profits.

As I pull out another dusty folder a small handwritten note falls out. It’s in the same small, loopy handwriting of the records—Papa’s handwriting.

Get free of the Watch Dog, my boys. He only watches for himself. Leave no mark he can use to turn the law on you—rest assured that the moment he can do this, he will. The only chance for you to live free is to follow these plans and become a service to the people.

My head is starting to hurt from squinting at the paper, and I decide to head back to my room. I carefully stack everything up and leave, hurrying down the hall. I flop on to my bed and pull out my phone.

I can even remotely access the agency’s database.

I get in quickly and start searching the family and the term ‘Watch Dog’.

Its obvious straight away that the brothers are moving into legitimate business.

Every record we have shows a constant and growing stream of paper work moving through legal channels and accounting for every penny. All the outlets for the business are lucrative and performing better the further into the public eye they come. Investors are joining them left right and center.

As for the Watch Dog, all I can find is an old photo from training days. It takes me a minute to recognize him, but the tall young man in the photo…

The senator.

The image is black and white, and the senator stands shaking hands with one of the higher-ranking officers. He’s receiving a medal or award, and the caption is blurry.

I enhance it with a few clicks to be able to see it.

The Watch Dog receives his award for bravery.

I frown, thinking now that this old dog is certainly the senator, and he has been using this code name for many years. I go back into the business records of the brothers, and I see that as their funds have become more legal and accounted for, the security on them has increased.

This doesn’t make any sense. If they’re paying higher taxes from each sub-branch of the company, they should be under less investigation.

Unless the old dog has been skimming from them all along, forcing them to continue the illegal activities so they pay him massive percentages. Then, as the business slowly becomes more transparent, they can’t hide his cut any more.

If my theory is true, they stopped paying him a cut a few months ago.

I can’t prove any of this, even to myself.

There could be even deeper reasons going on that I can’t see. Perhaps the brothers have moved their business over to legal channels to hide an illegal one. Maybe the senator has been involved in all of this, only to discover how deep it goes.

I don’t want to believe the worst of the brothers. But I can’t believe the worst of the senator either. He’s always looked after me.

Of course, the brothers look after me now…

But I don’t know how long I can count on that. I can only count on myself.

I can’t do a damn thing until I have more information. What I have found, I certainly can’t share with the senator. Somehow, these records are very important to him.

I flick the pages closed on my phone, logging out of the agency site. I’m tempted to go back to the office and snoop some more, but I know the boys will be home soon.

How can I face them?

How can I look into their eyes thinking of how I plan to betray them?

I try not to think about any of that.

I can rely on myself. I just need to find out a bit more information. I need to get the brothers talking, and in the meantime, keep my heart well-hidden.