“It wasn’t the plan,” I say. “With the latte. But it’s a nice bonus. Shake up her routine, see what falls off the table.”
“They’re locking it down instead.”
“Which wouldn’t be good if I were really planning something,” I say, sipping my drink.
“No plans for the prosecutor?” Antonio asks.
I tighten my fingers around the cup, suddenly irritated for a reason I can’t explain. I force myself to set it back on the saucer gently.
“Do I have a reason to?”
“Well, she is trying to lock you back up,” Antonio offers.
The bitterness in my mouth now has nothing to do with the espresso.
“She’s doing her job,” I say simply.
“Yes, and her job is to put you back in prison,” Antonio says.
“Prosecutors aren’t worth the time,” I say. “You take one down, there’s always another to take her place.”
Antonio tilts his head. “Then what is?”
“Money. Leverage.” I pick up my cup again, but don’t drink just yet. “The one who put me in a cage and the one who bought it.”
I think again of my precious daughter and her husband.
“And the prosecutor?” Antonio asks.
“She’s weather, Antonio,” I say absently. “You don’t waste bullets on rain.”
He pauses a moment. “And if not everyone feels that way?”
My gaze sharpens on him, hard and unrelenting. “You make sure they do. No contact, no messages, no gifts, no friends-of-friends. We don’t go near the café across from the office. That door is closed.”
He nods once. “Understood.”
“If she comes at us sideways, we answer in court,” I add. “On paper. Roberto’s lane.”
“He’ll be thrilled,” Antonio says dryly.
“You joke, but he will be,” I say. “On this, we go by the book. Nobody touches her. No one circles her building. Anyone tries to be clever, I deal with them personally.”
I lean forward and press my finger into the table. “I’ve been away for a while, so it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten my hands dirty. No telling what I’ll do to the first person who crosses me.”
Antonio doesn’t blink.
“I’ll say it exactly,” he replies. “No contact. No cute. If anyone wants to be a cowboy, I’ll break his hand before you have to.”
“Good,” I say. “Start with Vito. He gets the talk twice.”
“He’s on a run with Giovanni,” Antonio says. “Contracts and inventory. I’ll make sure he gets the message.”
“Nico?” I ask.
And right on time, a shadow blocks the sunlight streaming in through the open doors.
Nico steps into the doorway, towel over his shoulder, hair still damp from a shower in the guest house, where he lives.
