Vito’s jaw works. “Then we find the pressure.” He jerks his chin toward the hall. “We have people working on the car’s route. We should have something soon.”
“When we do, we move in,” Luca says, then looks at me again sternly. “You stay behind.”
“No,” I say.
His eyes narrow. This isn’t just my brother now. This is the Don of a very powerful family.
“You don’t question my orders,” he says.
“And you forget who you’re talking to,” I say. “For twelve years, I stood where you stand. Forthefamily and foryourfamily.”
That puts a hitch in his step, deflating his anger. That, and the knowledge that not only did I take the mantle when he was put away, but I stepped in to raise his children when his late wife, Carlotta, fell ill and died.
It’s leverage I’ve never used before and wouldn’t think to use. But this isn’t just any situation, and this isn’t just any woman.
“You know I’m grateful for that,” Luca says. “Always. You think not?”
“I don’t need your thanks, Luca,” I say quietly. “I need to be out there. I won’t stand down while others lead the way on this.”
The door opens without a knock. Nico first, then Antonio at his shoulder.
“What did you find?” I say.
Nico lifts the tablet he’s holding and throws the feed to the television on the far wall with a little flick that would have made our mother bless herself three times.
The screen blinks. The same grainy video from Bianca’s house shows up on the screen, but it’s frozen on one particular scene right before Bianca gets into the car.
My heart skips a beat.
But that’s not what Nico is focusing on. He zooms in on the man’s face, just as he turns slightly. It’s little more than his profile.
My hands are flat on the table, and I don’t remember putting them there. “Do we know who he is?”
Nico pushes a key, and the screen splits. On the right, a photograph from somewhere else. The same man, leaning against a marble bar with a practiced look of boredom on his face.
And I know him immediately, curse myself for not putting it together right off.
“Cristiano Russo,” I murmur.
Nico nods at me. “We pulled a match off a facial recognition ping from an events photographer in Florence,” he says, all business. “The car last night is registered to a shell tied to a Newark-based import outfit we’ve linked to Russo contracts.”
“‘We’ve linked,’” I echo. “Cute way to say ‘it’s theirs.’”
“It’s theirs,” Antonio confirms.
“And still,” I say, because I can feel the suspicion coming off them like heat off a vent, “you’re about to say something that will make me want to shoot the television. Or you.”
Antonio’s eyes cut to mine. “We’re not sure she was taken, exactly.”
I turn toward him slowly. “What does that mean?” I ask slow and deliberate.
“It means,” Nico says, heeding my warning to be careful, “she wasn’t exactly fighting him off.”
“She got into the car,” Antonio adds.
“That doesn’t mean anything.” The snarl is out before I can finesse it. “They could have been threatening her. They could have threatened her family. There could have been a gun—”
“We thought that,” Nico says quickly, palms up like he’s trying to slow me. “That was our first read. Until we got more.”
