“She’s with Caterina,” I snap. “Out for a girl’s afternoon. Nico’s on them.”
We’re already moving down the hall. I’m dialing. “Nico,” I bark the second he picks up, “abort the stop. Bring them home now. No detours.”
“Copy,” he says, voice tight.
“Listen to me,” I push. “The hit came from inside Elena’s office. Russo’s men are the trigger, and it’s not over. There’s another hit on the way. You do not stop. If anyone blocks you, you push through. If you lose a tire, you ride the rim. I want you through my gate yesterday.”
“On it,” he says, voice hard.
I kill the call and call Vito. “Drop everything. Elena’s hit came from inside the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Noah Akers. I want him in a locked room within the hour. I don’t care how you get him. Take Giovanni.”
“Understood,” Vito says. “On him.”
“Move,” I bite, cutting the line.
To Antonio: “Burn Akers’ patterns. Home, office, coffee shop, gym. Cameras, tolls, the works. Anyone he’s touched in forty-eight hours, I want eyes on them.”
“Already pulling,” he says, thumbs moving.
I call Nico again, but get no answer.
Everything in me turns cold as the phone rings and rings.
“Damn it!” I shout. “He’s not answering. I need eyes on them, Antonio. Now.”
“Doing the best I can,” he says, dialing his phone.
“Do it faster,” I bark, my heart pounding like a drum in my ears.
Antonio jogs up beside me, phone to his ear, snapping out orders.
But my phone stays dark. No Caterina, no Elena. No Nico.
I hit redial. Voicemail.
“Damn it. Where the hell are you?” I growl as I tear the front door open.
But no cars are coming up the drive. No engine. Birds are chirping, the afternoon sun is shining high.
And three of the most important people in my life might be in danger.
“Where the hell are you?” I say into the silence, and get nothing back.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Elena
The table is too small for all our bags, which feels like a good problem to have. Paper handles loop over the chair backs; tissue sticks out of bags from half a dozen boutiques.
Every time I shift my knee, something rustles—a stack of white onesies, the softest swaddle with a faint star print, a tiny ribbed sleeper in sage that Caterina talked me into buying. There’s a narrow box with a nursing bra I tried not to blush over and a long cream cardigan that drapes in a forgiving way over the growing curve of my stomach.
We found two dresses that make room for what’s coming while being subtle. I didn’t realize until I tried them on how much I needed clothes that don’t pinch.
The restaurant is alive with late-lunch energy: clink of glass, a low buzz of conversation, cutlery sliding on plates. Light pours through the tall windows and throws bright rectangles across the floor; outside, the trees along the sidewalk are full and green, the sky that high, unreal blue.
It’s the kind of day that begs for an outdoor sidewalk table and a slow hour. We’re inside and against the wall instead; inside, by Nico’s decree. I told myself it didn’t matter. The sun still finds us here.
“Grilled branzino or pasta?” Caterina asks, eyeing her menu.
