“And the third,” Matteo prompts.
“A sitter at Pine Crest,” Nico answers, tapping the rectangle on the map where the motel lives. “Far room, same wing. Likes TV with the sound low. He moves like a man who can stay awake too long. He has the rhythm of a watcher, not a guest. He took delivery of pizza at noon, left the box outside, and never opened the door when the kid from the counter knocked again for change.”
“More,” Matteo requests, eyes on the pencil marks.
“The church custodian says two men asked yesterday about the side exits and wanted to know if the kitchen door sticks,” Nico adds. “They said they were helping with lights. No one knows them. They left when the real custodian came back from the boiler.”
The mug slips in my hand just enough to scald my thumb. I set it down hard enough to ring the table. “Christmas Eve,” I say, forcing the words out. “The note was a finish date. It was an appointment.” Suddenly, the light shifts and lands center stage, cutting through the blind spot I’d been standing in.
Matteo meets my eyes and lets me see he already knew. “It is a dare,” he confirms. “Noise. Heat. A room full of people who love you enough to stand in the way without being asked. Benedetti wants cover for cowards.”
My chest goes tight in a different way. “Then we leave,” I fire back, before the fear can settle into me. “Today. Before noon. I can pack in an hour. We take the eleven thirty to the city, then another train, then a car. My mother and Marco can?—”
“No,” Matteo counters, calm as a blade set on a table. “They want you to run. Roads take control away. The moment the car door closes, you give them lanes, blind corners, choke points, lightsthat do not change when you need them to. Out there, it is their board. Here, it is ours.”
“You think Wrenleigh protects better than a moving target? That I should leave my people at someone else’s mercy?” I push.
“I know it does,” he returns. “Inside these blocks, I control the terrain because I choose angles. I place men in rooms with coffee, not bulletproof vests. I make the town’s watchdogs into a wall. Out there, you give them windows. You hand them your schedule—the ticket, the platform, the bridge. You are safer in a place where the clerk knows your face and calls your mother by her name.”
Nico looks at me, hands open on the table, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as if this is exactly what he expects from his boss.
I hate that the logic checks every box my fear drew. “You are asking me to put a target on a pageant,” I argue, heat rising.
“I am asking you to let me take it off,” he replies. “We put weight on doors so that they cannot open them. Our watchers will stand in corners they do not know exist. We cut their routes until Christmas Eve is a day for costumes and songs. They want a camouflage. We give them one.” He glances at Nico. “Go.”
Nico folds the map, tucks it under his jacket, and leaves by the alley without a sound.
When the back door clicks, the kitchen feels bigger. I turn the mug between my hands. Matteo doesn’t reach for me. He just studies my face with that steady look that can strip a person down to the part that still tells the truth.
“I can’t hold my people hostage to your mission,” I say flatly.
“We will not,” he answers, placing his palm over my wrist. His touch is warm, almost burning. I don’t pull away, but I don’t move closer, either. Between us sits the silence of things that can’t be named without breaking.
“How many men have you got?” I ask at last.
“Three.” Matteo does not blink.
“Three?” I snap. “That’s a joke.” I spin once, palms up. “How many are they, really?”
“Seven,” he says. “We plan for seven. I do not lie. That is how we win.”
“Win?” I drop back into the chair. “What does that even look like to you?”
“You open the door on Christmas morning without looking over your shoulder,” he says, simple and firm. “The boy is laughing where he should. Your mother tells me to take off my shoes before I come upstairs.” His mouth gives the smallest tilt. His voice is almost down to a whisper. “You're making too many cookies.”
The lump in my throat surprises me. I swallow hard and look away, because that answer’s the exact shape of the thing I’ve been building since Marco was born. Routine. It’s never sounded so brave.
The quiet stretches thin as pulled sugar. I rise, scrape the chair back, and set the kettle on the stove. The burner clicks, a sharp little heartbeat in the silence. I grind beans, slow and steady, the freshness of the grind pushing through the bitterness that still clings to the room.
“Who threw it?” I ask, not turning.
Behind me, I hear him shift in his chair, cloth brushing steel, the sound of someone weighing words before they’re out.
“The rag,” I say. “Gasoline. Someone brought that fire to my door.”
Matteo stands, moves closer, but stops short of touching the counter. “We do not know yet.”
“Not yet,” I echo. The grinder hums down to quiet.
