Men emerged from the side aisles.
Not Callahan men.
At least twenty.
And behind them walked Senator Charles Whitmore.
Gray-haired.
Distinguished.
Calm.
He looked exactly like the man people trusted on television.
“Mr.
Callahan,” he said.
Ethan moved in front of us.
“Senator.”
Whitmore smiled.
“Still playing protector.”
“Still hiding behind respectable titles?”
The smile vanished.
Then Whitmore looked at me.
“Rachel Morales.”
He studied my face.
“My God.
You look like your father.”
I held Sophie tighter.
“You killed him.”
Whitmore sighed.
“Michael was stubborn.”
Camila grabbed my hand.
“He admitted it to me.”
Whitmore glanced at her.
“You were remarkably persistent.”
“You killed my father.”
“I prevented one honest policeman from destroying thousands of lives.”
My stomach turned.
Ethan laughed once.
“Politicians really can justify anything.”
Whitmore ignored him.
“Your father discovered how deeply certain institutions depended on arrangements that kept this city functioning.”
“Bribes?”
“Stability.”
“Murder?”
“Necessity.”
Then Whitmore looked at Ethan.
“Your father understood eventually.”
Ethan went still.
“What?”
Whitmore smiled.
“Patrick Callahan wasn’t murdered because he fought us.”
He paused.
“Patrick Callahan joined us.”
Ethan’s face changed.
“No.”
“Oh, yes.”
Whitmore stepped closer.
“Michael Morales refused.
Patrick didn’t.”
Ethan looked at Camila.
She nodded miserably.
“I found records.”
Whitmore continued.
“Your father built the Callahan empire with us, Ethan.
Your reputation, your fortune, your entire kingdom exists because Patrick chose survival.”
