Page 134 of The Cost of Silence

And monsters hate it when the people they’ve been hunting look back at them from the dark and say:

My turn.

35.Nico

The apartment feels wrong.

Too damn quiet, too neat, like the walls are holding their breath. Isabella is in the office with Adi, going over her memories of the ambush while she pretends she isn’t shaking. I wanted to stay, but hearing the details was making me apoplectic, and Isabella sent me out to start making dinner. Matteo is perched on the arm of the sofa, suit jacket off, tie loose, bouncing his heel in that restless way that means if he doesn’t hit something soon, he’s going to crawl out of his skin.

I stand in front of the security monitors I’ve pulled up on the living room T.V, arms folded, replaying the footage from the garage, the lobby, the street outside. I’ve watched the same ten seconds of grainy footage six times already.

Marco had been right about the shooter, but wrong about him being on the street. The asshole was on a motorbike, a blurred shape at the corner of the block. I see him follow the car, a food delivery logo on his jacket, then the flash, the crowd on the sidewalk flinching, and it doesn’t get any less useless. No license plate, no description, nothing I can use.

“Freeze it,” Adi says, coming in from the hall. “There.”

I tap the keys, pausing on a frame where the man on the street is half-turned. All we get is a smear of dark hoodie, the angle of a jaw shadowed by the cap, the line of his shoulders. But it’s him. Uncle Domenico, watching from the street as the hit goes down.

“He must have known we’d find this,” I state, trying to figure out his endgame.

Adi shakes his head. “His arrogance means he probably thinks he’s invincible.”

“You think the shooter is his?”

“Doubt it,” Matteo says. “One of Orlov’s, most likely. He likes young men who think they’re invincible and cheap enough to throw away.”

“If they were aiming to kill her, they would’ve taken more time, more shots.” Adi’s voice is calm, but there’s a tightness around his mouth. “This was a drive-by warning. They wanted noise and blood, not bodies.”

“They got both,” I say. “And they hit Rossi to do it.”

The taste of that sits sour in my mouth. Rossi bleeding in the front seat of the SUV, Isabella’s hands pressed into the wound because they were the only ones available. It keeps slamming back into my head, each replay sharper than the last. I should’ve been there, I should’ve shielded her from that.

Matteo mutters a curse. “Have you heard from the hospital yet?”

“No.” I check my phone again anyway, as if that will make it ring. Nothing. “They said they’d call when he was out of surgery. We just have to wait.”

“I hate waiting.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, sending it into even more disarray. “We should be doing something. Hitting something. Someone.”

“We will,” I say. “But not blind.”

My phone buzzes. All three of us look at it like it might explode.

Unknown number.

I answer. “Mancini.”

“Mr. Mancini? This is St. Luke’s. The patient that was brought in earlier, Mr. Rossi, he’s awake, but his condition is unstable, and he’s asking for you, specifically. If you can come now, it should be quick. No more than a few minutes. The surgical team is prepping to take him back into surgery and he’s refusing until he speaks with you.”

For a second, I say nothing, because the words tangle, awake, unstable, back in. “I’m on my way,” I manage. “Keep him comfortable. Don’t let him talk too much.”

“We’ll do our best.”

The line clicks off.

I look up to find Adi and Matteo watching me. “He’s asking for me,” I say. “They’re taking him back in. This might be our only shot to hear what he’s got.”

Matteo nods once. “Then go.”

I glance up at the stairs, toward the faint sound of Isabella’s voice drifting from the bedroom, as she sings some cheesy Christmas tune, to calm her nerves. “I don’t want to leave her right now.”