Not empty. Never empty. Just subdued, like the city is holding its breath. Water laps against concrete pilings, dark and oily, carrying voices farther than they should. I keep my hands in my coat pockets as I walk, unhurried, eyes scanning reflections instead of faces.
He’s already there.
Leaning against a rusted bollard, hood up, cigarette burning down between his fingers. He doesn’t look at me when I stop a few feet away. Doesn’t need to. He knows exactly who’s standing there.
“How’s the work going?” I ask.
He exhales smoke slowly. “As expected.”
No names. No greetings. We’ve always spoken like this when it mattered.
“You’re still not at the head,” I say.
“Not yet.” He flicks ash into the water. “The snake’s got layers. I’m close, but not close enough. I need time.”
“That’s fine,” I reply. And I mean it. This was never meant to be quick.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, bringing up the photo I asked Amber to send me before I can second-guess myself.
I hold it out.
“In the meantime,” I say, “I want you to keep an eye out for someone.”
He finally looks at the screen.
And goes very still.
His cigarette drops from his fingers, hissing as it hits the damp concrete.
“Where did you get that?” he asks.
I watch his face carefully now. “You know her?”
He swears under his breath, runs a hand through his hair, hood falling back to reveal his face. Lorenzo. My second.
Gone for two years by design.
“I thought you knew,” he says. “Neri reached out about this. That’s why I asked for the meet.”
I brace myself for whatever he’d say next. She’s dead, buried. Whatever it is, I am ready to take it, and find a way for Amber to do so too.
“I’ll send my updates your way.”Nico’s voice echoes in my ear.“You’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em.”
“The woman in the picture,” Lorenzo continues speaking in his usual cold, calm manner, “she’s Georg Pavlov’s wife.”
The docks seem to tilt.
“His what?”
“Not by choice,” he adds quickly. “Word is, he kidnapped her three years ago. Lifted her right off the street. Since his brother was supposed to marry rich—to marry a Lark—Georg decided he could have whatever he wanted. Then, when Anton’s marriage didn’t happen, he kept his own under wraps just in case.” Lorenzo’s brow darkens. “But that’s unmistakably her. Coral.”
Coral.
Amber’s sister.
Alive.
And married to the enemy.
