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checked the finer points of the law, but she was certain that helping a foreign drug cartel establish an organized-crime syndicate on United States soil was a treasonable offence.
    When she didn’t find anything in the briefcase, she started on the desk, just in case he’d slipped something in the drawers since she’d searched last night. She knew Cesar, or thought she had. He was meticulous about keeping records; the paperwork had to be somewhere. “Where is it?”
    Cesar shoved papers back into his briefcase, his face flushed. She could smell the alcohol now, which accounted for his passivity. He had moved the money, then anesthetized himself.
    And what better financial pipeline for the Chavez cartel to utilize than the Morell Group? On the surface Cesar was solid gold, a business prodigy with the Midas touch. Until recently his assets had rivaled those of some of the most powerful men in the States. She yanked open a drawer.
    He slammed it closed. “Don’t bother looking, there’s nothing here.”
    â€œLiar.” Whatever he had done, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to store the records in his office downtown. Carmita had said he’d been home briefly at lunchtime. He would have hidden the papers then.
    She began opening drawers that held hanging files. Not bothering with the contents, she searched instead between the files. She hadn’t thought to do that last night. Cesar had a good brain, usually—he was analytical with just the right amount of greed and ego to ensure success—but his mind wasn’t serpentine. If she hadn’t been so panicked, she would have thought about searching between the files last night.
    She pulled the final drawer open. Her fingers walked through the files. Nothing.
    Her temper erupted. With a jerk, she hauled the drawer off its runners and let it fall to the floor. A neat manila folder was stored at the base of the cabinet.
    Cesar grabbed, but he wasn’t fast enough. Papers scattered, numbers leapt at Esther, the configuration as familiar to her as her own name. An account number in the Cayman Islands. Her gaze flowed down the page and stopped, the chill congealed into ice.
    Not seven figures. Eleven.
    Her heart stopped in her chest. More than thirteen billion dollars.
    Numbly, she transferred her gaze to Cesar. “What have you done?”
    The blow was short and vicious, an openhanded slap that caught her on the side of the jaw. She staggered back, almost tripping over the drawer she had pulled out of the filing cabinet. Her hand shot out, connected with solid wood, clutched at the edge of the desk to keep herself from falling. Sucking in a breath, she wiped blood from her mouth and waited until the room stabilized. It was the first time Cesar had so much as raised a hand to her, but Esther barely registered the blow.
    They were dead.
    She knew it as surely as she knew her marriage to Cesar was over.
    Lopez— Chavez— was using them. They were his doorway into the States. He was the predator who had systematically ruined them. He had set them up with breathtaking brilliance, his plays elaborate and perfectly executed, turning them into puppets. When he no longer needed them, he would kill them: all of them.
    Fiercely, she stared at Cesar, no longer seeing the brilliant man she’d fallen in love with and married, but the man who was responsible for putting her baby in danger. She had been thirty-four when she had given birth to Rina. She had lived life to the full, but never more so than that first moment she had held her own child in her arms. The thought of all that bright promise, of Rina’s quirky intellect, the fun and the dreaminess being snuffed out, was wrenching.
    She couldn’t allow it.
    With everything that was in her, she would stop that process, but she was going to need help. Lopez had gone too far, done too much; she was out of her depth.
    Cesar’s hand closed on her wrist. She wrenched