I extend my hand across the table. The gesture mirrors the one in the car—the same hand, the same scars. But the currency has changed. In the car, it was a professional handshake.
This is something else.
His hand meets mine. His palm is warm. His grip is firm. His eyes are steady.
"To each other," he says.
"To each other."
The grip holds. Then releases.
He stands up. "We need to move. We can't stay here. If they tracked the Volvo even part of the way, this location is burned."
"We ditched the Volvo," I remind him. "We're in the Ford."
"The Ford is a rolling probable cause stop. We need a secure location in the city."
"Rory's studio," I say.
He glances at me. "Not the penthouse?"
"The penthouse is compromised. If Seamus has Russian backing, they know where we live. Gallagher's is out—Seamus has a key. The studio is Rory's personal space. It's not on any Kavanagh registry. He rents it under an alias."
"And you trust him."
"With everything I have."
"Let's go."
We clean up. We bury the cans in the trash. We wipe down the table. We leave the safehouse exactly as we found it—empty, silent, waiting.
I walk to the door. The stitches pull, a sharp reminder of the night, but I can walk. I can fight.
Alessandro opens the door. The morning air is cold.
We walk to the car—the grey Ford sedan, battered and ugly in the daylight.
"I'm driving," Alessandro says.
I don't argue. I toss him the keys.
I get in the passenger seat. The seat smells of old vinyl and the blood I lost last night.
Alessandro drives. He navigates the dirt road, then the highway, heading back toward the city. He drives precisely. Checking mirrors. Signaling.
The city assembles around us as we cross back into the populated grid. Traffic. Pedestrians. The commerce of a morning that doesn't know two of its residents spent the night bleeding in a shack.
The normality of it is obscene.
We reach the arts district. It’s a neighborhood of converted factories and warehouses, gritty and quiet at this hour.
The studio is on the third floor of a brick building with fire escapes that look like rusted spiderwebs.
Alessandro parks the Ford on the street. Kills the engine.
The building is dark. The windows on the third floor are unlit.
"He could be asleep," I say.
