"Or not here."
The second possibility sits in my stomach like a stone. I sent Rory a text yesterday.Stay safe.If Seamus is watching, he knows Rory is my pressure point.
I open the car door. The stitches protest. I override them.
Alessandro is beside me. The Beretta is under his jacket. He looks tired, drawn, the stubble heavy on his jaw. But he looks dangerous.
We walk to the steel door. No signage. Just a biometric lock that Rory built himself.
I press the buzzer.
Nothing.
I press it again. Hold it.
A click. The intercom crackles.
"If you're selling something, I'm not buying. If you're collecting for the church, God and I have an understanding. If you're?—"
"Rory."
Silence. One second. Two.
The lock disengages with a heavyclunk.
The door opens.
Rory’s face appears in the gap. He looks pale, dark circles under his eyes. He’s wearing a paint-stained t-shirt.
"Kill." His voice cracks. "Jesus Christ, Kill, I thought you were?—"
He stops. His eyes move past me. Find Alessandro.
The relief hardens into assessment. He takes in the stolen car, the bloodstains on my jacket, the way I’m leaning slightly to the right to favor my side. He sees Alessandro standing close, ready to catch me.
"You'd better come in," Rory says.
He steps back.
We walk into the dark stairwell.
"Third floor," Rory says.
We climb. Every step is a negotiation with the pain in my side. Alessandro is right behind me, his hand hovering near my back, not touching but there.
We reach the top. Rory unlocks the heavy steel door to the studio.
We step inside.
It’s a massive space. High ceilings, exposed brick, huge windows covered in black-out curtains. It smells of turpentine and oil paint. Canvases are stacked everywhere.
Rory locks the door behind us. He throws three deadbolts.
He turns to face us.
"You look like hell," he says to me.
"I feel like it."
