“I’m closing the agency,” I said.
He glanced around the stripped-down office—the pale squares on the walls, the scuffed carpet, the place where Ray’s life had once been.
“Looks like you already did,” he said.“Clean exit.Very American.”
My fingers tightened by my sides.
“How did you know I’d be here?”I asked.
He tilted his head, studying me.Measuring.
“You’re predictable,” he said at last.“You like to finish things yourself.”
That wasn’t the answer.
And we both knew it.
“You’ve been following me.”I took a step back, angling toward the door.His gaze flicked to my feet, then returned to my face.
“Relax,” he said gently.“If I wanted to hurt you, we wouldn’t be talking.”
My pulse jumped.
“That’s not comforting.”
“It should be,” he replied.“I’m not my father.”
Marco Vincenzo.
The name rang through my skull like a warning bell.If this wasn’t about Marco...
“Then why are you here?”I asked.
His eyes dropped to the box.
“Because your husband was sloppy,” he said.“And I want my money.”
Cold unease slid down my spine.
“Whatever Ray did, died with him.”
Francesco’s mouth curved slightly.
“No,” he said.“What he did lives very comfortably offshore.”
Silence pressed in.
That was the moment everything shifted—the instant this stopped being confrontation and became calculation.
“You don’t have access,” I said.
Not a question.
His gaze lifted.Dark.Sharp.
“No,” he agreed.“But you do.”
The quiet hummed.
