-A Direction to Turn

The moment Marinos left the room, the tension lingered—like the faint smell of cigar smoke and bad decisions. Cosgrove let out a long breath, rubbing his temple like he'd just been handed a problem he didn't have time for.

Dante leaned forward, arms on the table, and smirked. "Been a minute, Cosgrove."

Cosgrove snorted. "Jesus, Dante. I shoulda known you were mixed up in this."

Dante grinned. "What can I say? I like keepin' you employed."

Lex stayed silent. Watching. Calculating.

Cosgrove sighed, rubbing his face. "Lemme guess—this ain't just about stolen paintings. You're sniffin' around somethin' bigger."

Dante tapped the folder in front of them. "C'mon, Cosgrove. You already see it. Ten Warhols, three Picassos, international buyers—this ain't just a rich prick sellin' his family stash for pocket change."

Cosgrove muttered a curse. "Dante, I ain't got time for this."

Dante smirked. "Yeah? We had time for those three cases back-to-back a few years ago, didn't we?"

Lex saw Cosgrove's jaw tighten—not in anger, but in recognition.

"Shit," Cosgrove muttered. "That was a mess."

Dante chuckled, shaking his head. "Three months, three cases, three rich assholes who thought they were too smart to get caught. And every single one of 'em ended up in cuffs."

Cosgrove exhaled, looking at Lex for the first time. "That what this is?"

Lex smirked. "This is worse."

Cosgrove scratched his jaw. "And Marinos just tried to ice it?"

Dante spread his hands. "You tell me."

Cosgrove let out a long breath. "Look—" he glanced at the door, then back at them. "I ain't sayin' I can make miracles happen, but... I got someone you should talk to."

Lex tilted his head slightly. "Who?"

Cosgrove tapped the corner of the file, like he was debating if he really wanted to say it. Then he exhaled sharply.

"Special Agent Roger Feldman."

Lex's breath caught for just a second.

Dante whistled low. "FBI?"

Cosgrove nodded. "Feldman's been trackin' money laundering in the art market for a while. Feds are already sniffin' around. If what you're sayin' is true, this case ain't gonna stop at the NYPD."

Lex stayed silent.

Because suddenly, he knew exactly where this road led.

He had been here before. In the first timeline.

Feldman.

The feds.

The endless legal battles. The war fought in courtrooms instead of boardrooms.

And in the end?

Lex won the case... but lost everything else.

Dante didn't notice Lex's silence. He was too busy leaning in, dropping his voice slightly. "Alright, Cosgrove. You gonna make the call, or do I gotta drag Latham here straight to the Bureau?"

Cosgrove muttered something under his breath. "Jesus, Dante. You really don't let up, huh?"

Dante's smirk faded, replaced with something cooler, more controlled. He straightened his tie, his voice shifting from streetwise New Yorker to seasoned legal professional in an instant.

"I don't let up because I don't waste time, Detective," Dante said smoothly. "And you know as well as I do that once the Bureau gets involved, this case stops being your problem."

Cosgrove exhaled sharply, eyeing the thick case file between them. He knew the implications. Stolen artwork, international buyers, fraudulent transactions—this wasn't just fraud, it was federal.

"Fine," Cosgrove muttered. "Come with me."

He stood, grabbing the folder as he led them out of the windowless interview room. Lex followed silently, his steps measured.

Dante walked beside him, his usual loose swagger gone, replaced with a lawyer's sharp precision. He had already shifted gears—he wasn't just Dante the New York tough guy anymore. He was Dominic Dante, Esq., the man who knew exactly how to pull the right strings.

Lex let him take the lead.

The walk wasn't far. The Financial Crimes Division had a small FBI presence on-site—one of their many satellite offices where federal agents worked in tandem with NYPD for major financial cases.

Cosgrove led them down a hallway lined with gray cubicles, eventually stopping at a frosted glass door marked:

SPECIAL AGENT ROGER FELDMAN – FINANCIAL CRIMES TASK FORCE

Cosgrove knocked once, then pushed it open.

Inside, Agent Roger Feldman sat at his desk, reading over a massive case file. Late forties, close-cropped brown hair graying at the edges, a perpetual scowl creasing his face. He had the air of a man who had seen one too many financial scandals and had zero patience for more.

"Feldman," Cosgrove said, stepping in. "Got something you're gonna want to see."

Feldman barely looked up. "Unless it's a billionaire confessing to tax fraud, it can wait."

Dante stepped forward smoothly.

"I wouldn't say billionaire, but we do have high-value assets illegally transferred across international borders, fraudulent sales, and potential art market money laundering."

That got Feldman's attention.

His eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing. He leaned back, closing his file with a soft thud.

"You have my attention," Feldman said, his tone still skeptical. "Who am I dealing with?"

Dante gestured to Lex. "Lexington Latham. Trustee and legal owner of the assets in question."

Feldman's gaze settled on Lex. There was no flicker of recognition, no sign that he knew the name. That was good. That meant Barnie hadn't poisoned this well yet.

"And who are you?" Feldman asked, looking back at Dante.

Dante smiled. "Dominic Dante, legal counsel. We're here to present a case that falls under your jurisdiction."

Feldman sighed, rubbing his temple. "Let me guess—stolen paintings?"

Dante's expression didn't waver. "We're not talking about a few missing family heirlooms. We're talking about ten Warhols, three Picassos, illegally moved through private transactions and offshore accounts."

Feldman blinked.

That wasn't just art theft. That was organized crime money.

Dante smoothly continued, setting down a copy of the case file on Feldman's desk.

"Our client's art holdings were loaned under a private family agreement. Instead of being returned, they were sold—some to questionable galleries, some to known collectors with connections to financial crime networks."

Feldman flipped open the folder, scanning the highlighted sections. His expression remained impassive, but his eyes darkened slightly.

Dante didn't stop.

"One Warhol sold to a Chinese billionaire family." He flipped to the next page. "One Picasso sitting in a Russian mob-backed gallery. Another Picasso sold to a museum under falsified provenance. The last is still being traced, but we have reason to believe it's been used as a shell transaction for tax fraud."

Feldman exhaled sharply. "Jesus Christ."

Lex remained silent.

He had seen this before.

In his first timeline, the feds had tried to sniffed around Barnie, but they never got him on the real charges. The paperwork had been buried, the evidence tangled in international loopholes.

Lex wouldn't make that mistake again.

Dante leaned forward slightly. "You know what this looks like, Agent Feldman?"

Feldman rubbed his chin. "Yeah. It looks like money laundering."

Dante nodded. "And if I were you, I'd want to know how far that trail goes."

Feldman was already flipping through the documents again, scanning numbers, dates, sale histories.

After a long moment, he exhaled. "Alright," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Give me a day to cross-check the transfers. If your provenance records hold up, I'll move this upstairs."

Dante nodded once. "That's what we wanted to hear."

Feldman closed the file. "But make no mistake—if I open this case, it's not stopping at your uncle. This could go much bigger than one guy flipping stolen art."

Lex's smirk was slight. "That's what I'm counting on."

Feldman watched him carefully for a beat, then nodded. "You'll hear from me soon."

Cosgrove, who had been silent through the exchange, finally exhaled. "Well. That's that."

Dante straightened, smoothing his tie. "Pleasure doing business with you, Detective."

Cosgrove rolled his eyes. "Get the hell outta my office."

Dante grinned. "We were already leaving."

Lex said nothing, just turned smoothly and walked out, Dante beside him.

As they stepped into the hallway, Dante let out a low whistle.

"That," he muttered, "was a damn good play."

Lex smirked, but didn't respond.

He was thinking ahead. He wasn't just handing the case over to the feds hoping for the best.

This time, he was going to make sure Barnie had nowhere left to run.