I don't know if I should thank him or punch him.
"So we stop fighting," I say, my voice rough.
"Agreed. We find the third party. Methods?"
"I hit the streets," I say immediately. "The Devaney crew has been cozying up to the Russians. I lean on them. Someone knows who ordered the hit on your driver. I’ll make them talk."
"And I will trace the money," Alessandro says. "The Russians operates through shell companies and crypto. This hit cost money. The surveillance on your brother cost money. I’ll follow the trail."
He reaches across the desk to pull up a map on the screen. His arm passes close to mine.
The contact is electric.
It’s just wool against leather, but I feel the jolt of it all the way down to my boots. I step back, putting distance between us. The memory of his skin under my hands, the sound of his breath in my ear—it crashes over me, unwanted and visceral.
He notices. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes flick to mine, cataloging the reaction. He files it away with the zip ties and the coin placement. Data.
"We go to the warehouse," I say, needing to move, needing to do something other than stand in this small room with him. "I need to see the body. I need to see the coin myself. Photos aren't enough."
"It's been secured. Rocco's men are?—"
"I need to see it. If someone is mimicking my family, I want to see the flaws up close. I want to smell the room. I want to see the bindings."
Alessandro nods. He opens a drawer in his desk.
He pulls out a gun.
A Beretta 92FS. Matte black.
He checks the magazine, racks the slide, and engages the safety with a fluidity that speaks of thousands of hours of practice. The sound—shuck-shuck—is loud in the quiet room.
I watch him. "You know how to use that?"
"I've been shooting since I was nineteen." He slips the gun into a holster at the small of his back. It vanishes under the line of his jacket. "My father insisted."
"Who taught you?"
"Rocco taught me to aim. A Mossad contractor my father hired taught me to kill." He looks at me. "There's a difference."
I stare at him. The man I thought was made of glass.
He’s armed. He’s trained. And he’s smarter than me.
The realization settles in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable. I underestimated him. I looked at the suit and the manicure and assumed he was soft. I assumed he was prey.
But prey doesn't carry a Beretta. Prey doesn't track supply chains. Prey doesn't stare down a brawler in his own kitchen.
"After you," he says.
We walk out of the office. Side by side.
We take the elevator down in silence. The descent feels long. I watch the numbers tick down, conscious of him standing next to me. He smells of expensive soap and gun oil. It’s a confusing mix.
We walk through the lobby. The concierge is gone, replaced by the night shift. We walk out into the rain.
The car is waiting. The driver sees us coming and starts the engine.
"I'll drive," Alessandro says.
