Firelight throws restless color across paneled walls. A wide hearth eats split logs with neat, efficient pops. The room smells like smoke and polish and something faintly medicinal.
They stop me in front of a heavy desk. Behind it sits the man from this morning—jacket off now, sleeves precisely folded, watch black and blunt at his wrist. He doesn’t rise. He just looks at me, the way a surgeon might study a chart before a cut.
Fear spikes hard in my chest. I keep my chin level.
“Leave us,” he says.
Hands fall away. Footsteps retreat. The door clicks. The fire fills the silence.
He laces his fingers on the blotter. “You made work for my men,” he says mildly. “Sit.”
I don’t move right away. My legs still feel like string. The chair across from him is low and deep—meant to make you look up. I take it, lowering myself carefully, palms flat on the arms so I don’t wobble.
Up close, the desk is bare except for a leather blotter, a pen, and a single folder. He doesn’t touch any of it.
“You’re resourceful, aren’t you?” he says, conversational, as if we’re discussing errands. “You have a talent for kitchens and escape plans. Well, not so much the second.”
His gaze ticks once to my scraped knuckles, then back.
“What do you want from me?” I ask because I can’t keep playing along. “Giovanni won’t come for me. We barely know each other.”
The words I heard through the window come back to me. He’s always had a soft spot for the Marcellis.
“No different than this morning.” He leans back a fraction. “My blood was spilled. Now it’s my turn to do the spilling.”
My throat is dry. I don’t ask for water. I won’t give him the grace of tending me. “Let me go. I have nothing to do with this.”
He considers that, almost amused. “The moment you got involved with him, you made your choice.” His eyes don’t soften. “There won’t be a second climb. I’ve already had the catches pinned and the rotations adjusted.”
“I won’t sit complacently,” I say, and hear the shake I don’t want.
“Don’t force my hand,” he replies. “Eat, sleep, and wait like an intelligent person while men with grievances finish their shouting.” A small tilt of his head. “Do not try to run again.”
I hold his stare.
He nods once, as if I’ve agreed to something. “Back to your room,” he says.
A rap at the door interrupts. He doesn’t look away from me.
“Enter,” he says.
The door opens, and a man steps in, eyes flicking to me and back. “Sir. We’ve had a call. One of our warehouses on River was hit. Small team, in and out. Cameras down.”
The man’s mouth curves. He turns that smile on me like we’re sharing a joke. “See? Of course he’s coming.” He taps a fingertip once on the blotter, pleased.
“He knows it’s a trap,” I spit out.
The man laughs. “Of course, he does. I never claimed he was stupid.” He waits a beat with that small smile on his face. “And he knows that it won’t work. He knows I won’t split my men up between two locations, which means that wasn’t really the bait.
“That’s still to come. I haven’t had this much excitement in years.”
The other man’s phone signals a message, and he looks up. “Sir, three more of our warehouses have been hit as well.”
This time, the dark eyes of the man behind the desk flash.
“Not so exciting anymore, is it?” I say.
He nearly snarls at me. “And yet, it won’t work. My best men are here now, and to get to you, they have to go through them. They can blow up half of Atlantic City, and nothing will change that.”
