Page 143 of The Cost of Silence

We take the fastest route back, lights and sirens courtesy of a friend in the department we still have from the old days. The city blurs by, washed out through the windshield, my reflection a dark smear overlaid on skyscrapers.

When the doors open on our floor, the smell hits first. Not blood, thank God, but sharp and medicinal, whatever was in the sedative Domenico’s men used to drop our guards. What puzzles me is why he didn’t kill them. Men like my uncle have no remorse over killing, so why let them live? It has me looking at every one of my men with a glint of suspicion that wasn’t there before, and maybe that’s the reason why he let them live. To leave me feeling isolated.

One of them is propped against the wall outside the penthouse, groggy but conscious, an ice pack pressed to the back of his head. The other is on a stretcher, Dr Russell checking his vitals.

“What happened?” I ask.

The conscious one struggles to his feet, swaying slightly. “I’m sorry, sir. There was a call. Mr. Adriano left in a hurry. We adjusted the pattern, and then…” He grimaces. “There was a smell. Sweet. I woke up on the floor ten minutes ago. No sign of Miss Romano. Cameras are down.”

“Take care of them, Doc,” Matteo says, voice flat and dangerous. “This isn’t their failure.”

We step inside.

The living room looks almost normal at first glance. The tree glows. The couch is in place. The kitchen is tidy.

Then you notice the little things.

A chair tipped half an inch off true. A mug shattered near the sink. A dark scuff on the floor where a shoe dragged. The faint, metallic tang that doesn’t quite qualify as a smell but lingers at the back of the throat anyway.

“She fought,” Matteo says quietly.

“Of course she did,” I reply.

We sweep the apartment room by room. No bodies. No obvious blood trails. Her bag is here. Her coat is here. But oneof my spare hoodies is missing, so she must be wearing it. They took her alive.

Somehow, that makes it worse.

We end up back in my office, the place that used to feel like control and now feels like a cage. The monitors are dead. Black screens stare back at us, accusing.

Matteo paces once, twice, then stops at the desk where Isabella’s notebook lies open. She must have been working when he came.

He flips through it, eyes skimming the lines, the way she’s turned our problem into lists and arrows and question marks. “She’s good at this,” he says, almost to himself.

“She’s better than we deserve,” I answer, tugging at my hair as I pace the room.

He pauses on a page and taps it. “Here.”

A margin note, half-scribbled, probably something she meant to come back to later.

East side dock. Old warehouse near the river. Check with Adi re: historic leases. Possible legacy site.

Matteo squints. “This one.”

“That’s one of the old properties,” I say slowly. “From before Papà went legit. He sold most of them off, but there was one he kept. Said it was sentimental. We haven’t used it in years.”

“Maybe you haven’t,” Matteo says. “He might have.” He looks up at me, something like grim satisfaction in his eyes. “Remember when we were kids and Domenico used to take us fishing there? Said it was ‘our little secret’.”

I do remember. Rotting wood, rusted hooks, his big hand on my shoulder a little too heavy. “You think he’d drag her to a place we know?” I ask. “He’s arrogant but he’s not stupid.”

“He likes symbolism,” Matteo says. “He left a note on Rossi. He strutted into your home instead of sending a proxy. Making this personal is part of the point. And if he thinks he’s the rightful heir, he’d want to stage his little coup somewhere that means something. A place our father started the old business from. A place he thinks he can reclaim.”

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Unknown number, again.