While he bleeds, we leave the way we came. Freight elevator. Service corridor. Isabella keeps her hand on the rail, bag tight to her side, eyes everywhere. I like how fast she learns.
Back in the restaurant’s office she lays out what we took. Two drives. The recorder. Cards we can burn or use. Cash for grease. We plug the smaller drive into an old laptop I disconnect from the network first. Files crawl into view. Time stamps. Call logs. A folder labeled “Meetings” that holds audio with dates and names redacted.
Ledger notes read, harbor pilot retainer, midnight. Crane three rotation logged as maintenance, then erased.
The night our houses put two bodies in the water, stares back at me. It’s a date I’ll never forget.
“Listen to this one,” she says, pulling me out of my internal debate on whether or not to point it out.
A voice that isn’t Adrian’s fills the room. Older and more polished, the kind of voice that sits on boards and cuts checks with other people’s blood.
“Different barrel. Different man. Same word as the river night. Resolved. After Valentine Week, we take the port. If the girl holds the chair, that’s a problem. Remove her and their consent follows.”
Not a jealous fiancé. A scaffolding. A plan that uses Adrian like a cheap hinge. A chill moves under my skin.
Isabella presses stop. “That’s not your uncle.”
“No, or any of our men.”
Her face is a study in angles and decision.
“We can take this to your uncle,” she says.
“We can,” I say. “Even if he’s involved, he’ll want to use it to cut a deal. The Commission, too. They’ll want to pretend they discovered it on their own. Your father will pretend he didn’t hear it at all.”
“My father’s the only reasonable one,” she says, crossing her arms.
Taking a breath, I remember she’s a Valentine. Something I haven’t had time to process.
“Your father’s dealing with a lot. His daughter in the line of fire, disappears with the enemy. He’s out for blood. I’m assuming Adrian has men loyal to him. We don’t know who we can trust. The same is true of my family.”
Her mouth lifts at one corner. Not a smile. Agreement. I pull out a map of the district around the port and spread it on the desk. She moves in beside me. We draw lines. We mark a timing window. We pick a courier who’ll carry one copy to a man who hates the Commission more than he loves us. We decide where we’ll stand when the room ignites.
Only then do I permit myself to gaze at her in the manner I wish. Her hair’s coming down in small defeats. Her mouth has that soft set it gets when she’s chosen something she can’t take back. I touch the back of her hand where ink from the map has smudged her skin.
“You should sleep,” I say. “Forty minutes. I’ll watch.”
“You will not sleep if I do?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then we sleep later. We’ll go check the condo.”
“Is that wise?” I ask.
She steps into me like she always belongs there. “He won’t think we’re stupid enough.”
My hands find her waist and the small of her back. Her breath warms my throat. I kiss her once, slow, the way I did in the suite with the sea walking in and out of the room. She answers like that night’s still under our skin.
I pull back because if I don’t, we’ll never leave this office. She lets me. Taking the burner, she puts it and the recorder inside the lining of her dress where no one will search without losing a hand.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Ready.”
We kill the lights. I key the back door. The street outside smells like snow that hasn’t arrived yet. Somewhere across the river a siren climbs and falls. Itake her hand and we move into the night, carrying proof enough to start a fire.
Chapter Seven
