Ryan looked at the text for longer than was probably obvious from the outside.
*We are onto you Russo. It's only a matter of time.*
Unknown number. No context or signature.
He read it three times, each time hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something less concerning. They didn't.
His first thought was the IRS. But the IRS sent emails with letterheads and formal language and meeting requests. They didn't send late night texts from unknown numbers at agency parties.
Which meant someone else.
FBI. A private investigator hired by someone. Someone at the bank who'd noticed the deposits and decided the official channel was too slow. He didn't know, and the not knowing was the worst part — it sat in his chest and radiated outward in a way that was difficult to ignore while also standing in a penthouse holding a drink.
He pocketed the phone.
