The rain was coming down in sheets, Elena Vasquez didn't bother with one. She liked the way the cold water soaked through her hair and ran down the back of her neck—it kept her sharp, awake, alive.She pushed through the door of The Ledger's newsroom just after nine p.m., shaking droplets from her dark curls like a dog coming in from the storm. The place was half-empty, most of the staff already gone for the night, but the fluorescent lights buzzed on, indifferent. Her desk sat in the far corner, buried under stacks of printouts, sticky notes, and three empty coffee cups that had gone cold hours ago.Elena dropped her soaked messenger bag onto the chair and powered up her laptop. The screen glowed to life, illuminating the grainy scanned photo she'd pinned to her corkboard years ago: her father, Miguel Vasquez, smiling outside his bodega in Sunset Park. Next to it, the yellowed newspaper clipping from fifteen years earlier—LOCAL SHOP OWNER FATALLY SHOT IN APPARENT ROBBERY. No arrests. Case closed.She stared at it for a long second, the way she did every night, then forced her eyes back to the screen.Tonight wasn't about her father. Not directly.Tonight was about the tip that had landed in her encrypted inbox three days ago.A single line from an anonymous account:
Crowe Tech is washing millions through shell accounts in the Caymans. Follow the money and you'll find blood.Attached: a partial ledger. Names redacted, but the routing numbers traced back to subsidiaries that all funneled into one parent company. Crowe Tech Industries. Founded and run by Damian fucking Crowe—the golden boy of Manhattan tech, the guy whose face had been on the cover of Forbes twice before he turned thirty.Elena had spent the last seventy-two hours chasing every thread. Phone calls to reluctant sources, late-night dives into public records, favors called in with a contact at the SEC. Piece by piece, the picture was forming: irregular transfers, offshore entities that existed only on paper, board members with ties to old New York families who'd made their fortunes long before anyone cared about apps and algorithms.And tomorrow night, Damian Crowe was hosting his annual charity gala at the Glasshouse in Chelsea. Black-tie, champagne, the kind of guest list that read like the society pages. Perfect place for a journalist to slip in unnoticed.Well. Almost unnoticed.Elena opened her closet app and scrolled to the dress she'd bought on impulse six months ago and never worn: deep emerald silk, backless, slit high enough to make her feel dangerous. She'd paired it with the press pass she'd finagled from a freelance photographer friend who owed her big.She was going to get close to Damian Crowe. Ask him the questions no one else dared to ask. Look him in the eye and see if the man behind the billion-dollar smile had anything to hide.Her phone buzzed on the desk. Unknown number.She hesitated, then picked up. "Vasquez."A man's voice, low and distorted—probably running it through some cheap app. "You're digging into things that don't concern you."Her pulse kicked up, but she kept her tone flat. "People keep telling me that. Funny how it only makes me dig harder.""Stop. Or the next warning won't be words."The line went dead.Elena stared at the screen until it went dark, then set the phone down with steady hands. She'd gotten threats before. Came with the job. But something about the timing—three days into this story—felt too convenient.She closed her laptop, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle, streetlights smearing gold across the wet pavement.Tomorrow night, she'd walk into the lion's den wearing four-inch heels and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.And Damian Crowe had no idea what was coming for him.She stepped out into the night, the city humming around her, and didn't look back.