Colt remained standing, arms crossed, taking up position near the door like a sentinel.
“Candy?” Martinez offered, pushing a crystal dish of wrapped chocolates toward them. “Belgian. Quite good.”
“No, thank you,” Amy replied coolly.
Nash fought back a snort. Who did this guy think he was, fooling with the gracious host routine?
“I appreciate you meeting me on a Sunday,” Martinez continued, steepling his fingers. “But as I mentioned, the information I have is rather time sensitive.”
“We’re all ears,” Nash said, leaning back in his chair with deliberate casualness, though every muscle in his body was tense.
Martinez’s gaze flicked to Colt, then back to Amy. “I must say, I was surprised to see you at church this morning, Professor Blair. In the two years you’ve been with our department, I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned being religious.”
“There are a lot of things I don’t mention,” Amy replied evenly.
Nash suppressed a smile. She wasn’t giving an inch.
“Indeed.” Martinez adjusted his tie, a nervous gesture that betrayed his composed exterior. “Well, to the matter at hand. Professor Blair, your research into Porter Rockwell has … attracted attention.”
“What kind of attention?” Nash asked before Amy could respond.
Martinez’s mouth tightened at the interruption. “The kind that warrants caution.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’ve been asked to deliver a message.”
The air in the room seemed to change, growing heavier, more charged.
Nash felt Colt shift his weight behind them, readying himself.
“A message from whom?” Amy asked, her voice remarkably steady.
Martinez hesitated, then sighed. “I suppose there’s no delicate way to put this. I’ve been … approached by representatives of the Ferrante family.”
Nash felt Amy go completely still beside him. He reached over and took her hand, squeezing it once.
“The Ferrantes,” Nash repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “As in the organized crime family? Those Ferrantes?”
Martinez winced. “I wouldn’t characterize them that way to their faces, Mr. Cross.”
“So you’ve met them face to face,” Colt observed from the door, his voice dangerously quiet.
Martinez’s eyes darted nervously to Colt, then back to Nash. “I’ve been asked to advise the Cross family to cease their investigation into Porter Rockwell’s gold. It has nothing to do with you, and they have no wish to cause your family harm.”
“How considerate of them,” Nash drawled. “And yet here you are, delivering what sounds an awful lot like a threat.”
“Not a threat,” Martinez insisted, sweat beading on his upper lip despite the cool temperature of the office. “A professional courtesy. The Rockwell gold belongs to the Ferrante family. They’ve been searching for it for generations.”
“Belongs to them?” Nash repeated incredulously. “Based on what claim, exactly?”
Martinez shifted uncomfortably. “That’s not for me to say. I’m simply passing along the message, as requested. I want to make it perfectly clear that I am not officially—or unofficially—involved with the Ferrantes. I’m merely acting as an intermediary.”
“An intermediary,” Nash echoed flatly. “Right. And I suppose you just happened to be hiking the same trail as us yesterday? And you just happened to run into us this morning? You weren’t following us?”
“No. Those were mere coincidences,” Martinez said weakly.
“My brother doesn’t believe in any type of coincidence,” Colt said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Neither do I.” He pushed off from the wall, taking a step closer to the desk.
Martinez’s eyes widened slightly, his gaze darting between the three of them. “Look, I’m simply trying to prevent any unnecessary … complications. The Ferrantes are serious people. They want what they consider theirs, and they’re willing to take steps to protect their interests.”
“Like murdering Bill Harris?” Amy asked, her voice quiet.
