I didn’t notice him then, but I sure as hell do now.
“Who is he?” I ask, already knowing the answer will piss me off.
“No ID,” Luca replies. “No prints, no plates, no digital trail. Facial recognition’s pulling nothing. But he’s been following you.”
My jaw ticks.
“How long?”
“Long enough. There are three confirmed locations. One tail car. Slipped past our guys each time.”
I stare at the image. Unlike the many other men who tried to cross me, his eyes aren’t wide with fear. They’re narrowed with purpose. Withintent.Like he’s watching something he’s already decided to destroy.
I slam the folder shut and shove it into Luca’s chest.
“Find him.”
Luca nods and disappears down the alley.
I turn back toward the bridge, toward the body staged in my name, the whispers already winding through city streets.
And in the silence that follows, one thought cuts through louder than the rest:
Who the fuck are you, and why are you watching me?
After stuffing Roman’s body into the trunk, I slide into the backseat of the Rolls.
The door shuts with a soft click, quiet and final. Soundproofed from the city, from the corpse cooling behind me, from the bloodsomeone spilled in my name. Inside, the world is clean. Dark leather seats. Black chrome trim. The faint scent of smoke and expensive cologne, all mine.
It’s not my only car, but it’s the quietest. The one I use when I want people to remember I don’t need noise to be dangerous.
“Home,” I say.
Enzo nods from the front seat. He doesn’t speak. He knows better. The partition rises a second later, cutting off even the shape of his shoulders. Privacy on demand. Control in every detail.
The Rolls glides away from the curb like it was born to ghost through chaos.
I lean back, my eyes locked on the city flashing past in soft blurs of gold and steel. The streets are waking up: trucks unloading, joggers in overpriced gear pretending this city doesn’t have claws. The skyline is still pink around the edges, like the morning hasn’t figured out what kind of day it wants to be.
I already know what kind of day it is.
Whoever staged that body under the Halston Bridge wanted a message carved into the pavement. But what they don’t understand is this: I don’t read messages. Ianswerthem.
With blood. With silence. With precision.
I close my eyes, picturing the man’s face. Sharp in profile, cigarette hanging from his lips like a sneer. He knew he was being watched. Hewantedit.
My jaw tightens.
I’ve seen that kind of hunger before.
That man didn’t just stumble into my orbit. He walked in.
And I’m going to find out why.
We pull through the wrought iron gates of the estate twenty minutes later. The gravel crunches beneath the tires as the house looms into view. Four stories of stone and shadow, carved into the hillside like a monument to power. Or penance.
Enzo parks the car in silence.
