“Never mind, I found the emails.” She smiled slightly, scrolling through his inbox. She’d organized it by sender, and she skimmed boring emails about tax forms and offshore accounts and funneling money. “Any plans to meet him while you’re here?”

“No.”

Nita ordered the emails by most recent and decided he was telling the truth. So she composed an email to Alberto Tácunan, marked as urgent.

Something has come up. I need to see you in person. I’m at the summit tomorrow. Can we meet?

She considered adding more details, but decided the vaguer the better, and hit the Send button.

She glanced through the emails, and Kovit retaped Almeida’s mouth and asked in a hungry, hopeful voice, “Can I play with him?”

Nita kept her face calm even as her stomach turned. “Not yet. We still might need him.”

Kovit sighed and flopped on the bed beside her to read over her shoulder. On the chair, Almeida began to struggle, but it was pointless, and both Nita and Kovit ignored him.

Kovit watched as Nita flipped through emails with Tácunan Law, scrolling through Almeida’s files. Offshore accounts, check. Funneling campaign money into personal accounts, check. Running a brothel in São Paulo, check.

“What a sleazeball.” Kovit’s voice was layered with disgust.

“Agreed.” Nita casually copied the relevant emails and sent their details to one of the Brazilian nonprofits trying to end corruption.

Kovit pointed at one of the email headers. “Look, did he ask his superiors to be the representative to attend this summit?”

Nita blinked and clicked on the email. He had indeed requested it. She skimmed the email, then the next. It looked like Mr. Almeida had significant holdings in the black market. He’d lost a lot of money when el Mercado de la Muerte was destroyed—a lot of bribe money, specifically. He’d wanted to come here to ensure that whatever happened, this summit failed.

“Wow.” Kovit’s eyes were wide. “I’d realized the black market had a lot of reach—they must have to keep Death Market running so easily—but this . . .”

“I know,” Nita whispered. “It’s a lot.”

“Look there.” Kovit reached over her shoulder and clicked an email. “Is that a hit? He put a hit on an activist?”

Not just any activist. He’d put a hit on Mirella.

Her companion in captivity in el Mercado de la Muerte. The girl who’d had her eye gouged out and sold, who’d escaped with Nita, who’d been shot on the dock. Who Nita had thought dead until she came and wreaked bloody vengeance on the people attempting to flee the market after Nita burned it to the ground.