Dimitri stood, began to pace.
Isabella could see him thinking, analyzing, trying to find holes in her story.
But there weren't any.
Because Enzo had made sure of that.
"Tell me about the waiter," Dimitri said suddenly, spinning back to face her. "James. Did you speak to him that night?"
"I don't know anyone named James."
"Did you speak to ANY waiters that night?"
"Of course. To order drinks. To thank them for service. The same as everyone else at the gala."
"Did you give anyone money?"
"I gave a tip to our server. Twenty dollars. Cash."
"Three hundred dollars was deposited into James's account that night. From a burner account. Traced to a location near Table 47."
Isabella shrugged, her expression genuinely confused. "I don't know anything about that. But Dimitri, there were eight people at Table 47. If someone near that table transferred money, it could have been any of us. Or anyone walking past that table. Or someone at the tables nearby."
Dimitri's jaw clenched.
