“She knew.” The realization hits like a physical blow. “She knew about Ano’s contract.”
Marcus takes a sharp turn, tires fighting for grip on the wet asphalt. “How?”
The pieces slot together with sickening clarity. Liv came to me for protection, yet she’d been ready to run from the start. Planning her possible escape, preparing for the moment I’d choose Ano’s money over her life.
“Sir?” Marcus’s question hangs in the air.
“She must have learned about Montoni’s proposition. It’s the only thing that makes sense. She thinks I’d take the contract. That’s why she ran. She thought—”
I break off, something raw and uncomfortable clawing at my chest.
“But she came to you first,” Marcus observes, cutting through another yellow light. “Why risk it?”
The question crashes against others, spinning through my mind. Why me? Why take the chance?
I check the signal again, watching it fade in and out. The cruel irony of it threatens to crack my careful control.
“Next right,” I order, shoving down the unfamiliar ache in my chest. “And Marcus? Break every traffic Hunt you need to.”
“Kill the headlights.” I lean forward, studying the shadowed storefronts. “Take Brighton.”
Marcus complies without question, the Audi gliding silently through the darkness. The tracker’s signal stabilizes briefly, and I check the coordinates against the building layout I’d memorized years ago.
“Restaurant has three exits.” I pull up the city planning records on my phone. “Main entrance, kitchen delivery, and a connection to the adjacent building’s basement.”
“Security cameras?”
“Two outside. Basic system.” My jaw tightens as I spot a black SUV parked haphazardly near the restaurant. “Stop here.”
Marcus eases the car to a halt behind a dumpster, one building away from the Mighty Dragon. The neon sign flickers weakly, its red glow reflecting off puddles of rainwater.
“No movement inside,” Marcus observes, checking his tablet. “Tracker shows she’s in the back, near—”
“The kitchen.” Her words echo in my head:Done in by industrial refrigeration. That’s just… that’s just perfect.
Distant sirens pierce the night. We have minutes, maybe less.
“Time’s up.” I open my door silently, rain immediately soaking through my suit. “If you see Ano’s cleaners…”
“No witnesses,” Marcus confirms, already moving toward the delivery entrance.
Twenty million. Her voice haunts me, bitter and resigned. As if I’d ever—
I push through the rain, weapon drawn, moving silently toward the restaurant’s back entrance. The door hangs open, inviting darkness beyond. Thin wisps of smoke curl through the gap, carrying the acrid scent of gunpowder.
My breath catches. Roberto Mutini’s body lies just inside, sprawled face-down on the grimy tiles. One clean shot to the back of the head—professional, efficient. No passion, no rage, just cold execution. These aren’t common thugs. These are Ano’s cleaners, the kind of men who treat murder like accounting.
“Perimeter,” I order Marcus, who immediately moves to secure our position.
I crouch beside Roberto, analyzing the scene with practiced detachment. Minimal blood spray suggests close range. The position of his arms, the way he fell—he was running. Not from a fight. No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. He was trying to reach something. Or protect someone.
The nearest security camera hangs lifeless, its wires precisely cut. Not ripped out in panic, but disabled with tactical efficiency. Ex-military, most likely. The kind of men who plan exits before entries and never leave witnesses.
Rising slowly, I spot the kitchen door. An overturned chair blocks the threshold, and a metal table is knocked askew beside it. Unlike Roberto’s execution, this shows haste. Urgency.
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice carries from the shadows. “Two more cameras disabled. Surgical cuts, both of them.”
I move toward the kitchen, piecing together the scene. Roberto running. The chair knocked over. The table pushed aside. All leading to—
