My brain tries to do the math, but I stop myself. There’s no use. All the travel back and forth between New Jersey and Italy, Nonna passing, the stress of taking over the restaurant, then the debt. Then working for Gio. It’s too much.
Fear blooms fresh. Isn’t it bad enough? My situation? Now I have to add something far more valuable and precious to it?
And if the man knew, the one who came to talk to me, threatened me so casually. If he knew…
No. I shut my feelings away. No, he can’t know. And I can’t give him a reason to suspect. His son—Gabe, was it?—had no problem attacking Elena while she was pregnant. These people will have no qualms about killing me.
I push away from the counter and go in search of supplies. Toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, all sitting in a drawer. Plus other amenities. A hair brush, moisturizer. How long do they intend on keeping me here? How many other people have they kept here?
I tamp down the fresh burst of fear and pull out the toothbrush and toothpaste. Numbly, I brush my teeth, washing away the acrid taste of sick.
In the mirror stands a woman who looks like she needs ginger, crackers, and a big hug. I can’t let them see me like this.
Back in the bedroom, I go to the dresser, take the sprig of rosemary from the shallow bowl, and bring it to my nose. Sharp, green, clean. I pinch a tiny piece and let it sit on my tongue. It’s bitter first, then piney. It wakes me up inside, sharpens my mind. My stomach doesn’t revolt. Another small victory.
I sit in the chair by the window and watch the courtyard. Two guards, then none, but not for long. Another two come along. I time their passes with the slow sweep of the second hand on the clock. Thirty-eight seconds out of sight along the far hedge. Twenty-two near the fountain.
I set my hands flat on my knees. I am not going to fall apart. I am going to stay upright, stay observant. If I get a phone, I’ll call. If I get a door, I’ll run.
I can’t afford to sit around and wait for someone else to make decisions for me. Not when so much more is at stake now. I press my hand to my stomach, then quickly drop it.
No. No one can know.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Giovanni
Monitors glow in the dim of Luca’s study, each a frozen slice of road. I scrub back, play, pause, advance two frames at a time. The sedan slips through a yellow at Ferry, ducks under the overpass, disappears for six seconds behind a truck. Reappears.
I tag the timestamp, drop a pin. Another camera picks it up two blocks later, heading east. Every breadcrumb runs in the same direction—Russo country. I didn’t need the screens to tell me that, but it’s all part of the process.
I needed something to do that wasn’t snapping at everyone while waiting for Vito to come back with information from Cristiano Russo, so Luca put me in front of a monitor to follow the route of the car.
Normally, I excel at things like this. The patience it takes is something I typically have in spades. But things like that don’t count when all you want to do is punch and kick your way to the answers.
Click. Pause. Grain stutters. The sedan takes a right, then vanishes into a gap where the city couldn’t be bothered to hang a camera. I swear under my breath and start triangulating side streets, checking feeder angles, pulling up any lens with a line on the next intersection. Nothing. He threaded the blind spot as if he’d practiced it.
The study door eases open. I don’t turn. I’m ready to bite whoever thinks now is the time.
“Save the bark for someone who won’t wake,” Elena says softly.
I look over. She’s got Alessandra cradled against her shoulder, the baby’s cheek pressed into the curve of her neck, one small hand fisted in Elena’s sweater. Elena’s hair is tied back, eyes steady in that way that would ease a witness on the stand.
“You can snap at me,” she says, mouth tilted. “But you’ll have to apologize to her.”
A wry smile pulls at my face before I can stop it. It dies just as fast. I turn back to the map of streets and empty pixels.
Elena comes closer, slow like she’s approaching a skittish dog, and lowers into the chair beside me. Alessandra sighs once, a tiny weight shifting against her collarbone.
“You’re not going to think your way through the part that isn’t here,” she says, nodding at the black square of the blind spot.
“I can damn well try.”
“I know.” She studies the frozen frame, then me. “You’re scaring everyone.”
“I’m busy,” I say.
“You’re scared,” she answers, not unkind. “So are we.”
