“Security knows it’s them,” Giovanni says. “Front stays clear. Cameras rolling.”
“Keep cars off the drive,” I add. The last thing she needs is a show.
We reach the door just as the lock buzzes on the outer gate. The warm air slides in first with a hint of rosemary from the pots by the steps. Tires whisper up the gravel.
I put a hand on the door, breathe once, twice, then pull it open as the sedan stops.
The driver’s side door swings wide. Nico steps out first, tall, composed, scanning. He rounds the hood before I can descend the steps, and opens the passenger side.
Elena unfolds from the seat, head down for a heartbeat, then up. Even from here, I can see the shock in her eyes, the way she’s keeping her spine straight by force. She’s here. She’s standing.
That’s as far as I let myself think before I move forward to meet them.
Then she’s in front of me, alive, upright, but pale. Nico’s hand is a firm grip at her elbow; he only lets go when mine replaces it.
“Elena.” It comes out a rasp. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head once, too sharply. “No. I—” Her voice thins. “I don’t think so.”
Nico answers what she can’t yet. “Parking garage. Black SUV came in hot. Aimed for her. I grabbed her, we moved. Driver bounced a pillar and kept going. Partial plate; front end’s scraped to hell.”
Every muscle in me goes tight. “Inside,” I say, already turning her toward the door. “Now.”
She lets me guide her, one hand in mine, the other still clamped around her bag like it’s a lifeline. In the foyer, the cool air hits, and she wavers a fraction. I angle us toward the living room, to the corner of the sofa that faces the garden. The pool throws soft silver across the ceiling.
“Sit,” I tell her, and it’s as gentle as I can manage right now. She sinks down, back straight, palms flat to her knees. Her hands are trembling.
Vivian appears with a tray—water beading on glass, a folded cool cloth, a steaming mug. No questions, no fuss. I take the cloth and press it to the nape of Elena’s neck. “Breathe for me,” I say, and I keep my voice steady and calm.
Nico stands at my shoulder, quiet, waiting. I look up at him. “Make and model?”
“Late-model Tahoe. No plates up front. Rear was taped—came loose when he clipped the pillar. I got three digits. We’ll scrub the cams.” He glances down. “She didn’t hit the ground. No contact.”
“Good.” It doesn’t feel good. “Giovanni,” I call, and he’s already in the doorway. “I want the footage from her building and everything within two blocks. Work the plate with what we’ve got. Flag every shop that can do body work on short notice within fifty miles. Put cash in the right hands. I want the car before dawn.”
“No need,” Vito says, coming in hot, phone in his palm. “We’ve got chatter,” he says. “Russo channels. They’re tossing around ‘the prosecutor’ and ‘the Conti heir.’ They know she’s pregnant.”
I shift without thinking, my body between her and the room. Her fingers catch my wrist and hold.
“How?” Giovanni asks, already dialing. “Tail? Building? Clinic?”
“Don’t know yet,” Vito says.
“My boss,” Elena whispers hoarsely.
I crouch to her level. “What about him?”
“He got an anonymous tip,” she says, eyes on my wrist where she’s holding on. “About the doctor. About me being here. About New York—Antonio and Nico on the sidewalk.” She swallows. “He pulled me off your case this morning.”
That’s why she wanted to be alone.
I tell myself that’s not the point right now.
“Anonymous how?” Giovanni asks, already moving to the edge of the rug where he can hear and dial at the same time. “Email? Call? Packet?”
“Didn’t say,” she answers. “But there were photos. Grainy, long-lens. My building. A hotel awning.” Her mouth twists. “You couldn’t see anything, though. Not really. It was enough for doubt. Not enough to prove anything.”
“Someone fed them to him,” Vito says.
