I let him.
Because my son is missing.
And right now the only thing keeping me from coming apart is the sound of that voice beside me and the terrible, dangerous relief of not being alone for once.
8
NICO
The Maserati moves through the Bronx like a blade through water.
I’m driving. Leone has gone up ahead on my orders to knock on doors and raise hell.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Izzy has not stopped gripping her phone since we left the restaurant.
She presses a hand to her forehead. “This is my fault.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” I repeat.
Her laugh is thin and miserable. “You’re being too nice.”
“I assure you, no one’s ever accused me of that.”
She looks at me like she wants to argue again. Like she knows from experience that’s not true. But I know better than to delude myself. She doesn’t remember our night together. How could she? It was seven years ago, in a club dark as sin.
Better this way. Better she has no idea what she means to me.
“I should have been more careful,” she whispers. “Should have heard my phone. It was just so busy on the floor tonight,and,” She stops talking and presses both hands to her face. “I’m such a bad mother.”
“You’re nothing of the sort.”
“Yeah?” She laughs bitterly. “Because I lost my kid today. That’s not Mother of the Year material.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and for one brief second I see how close she is to falling apart. I understand why she doesn’t. Mothers like her do not have the luxury of falling apart. They keep moving because someone smaller depends on them to.
“Tell me about Noah,” I say. “Anything that can help locate him.”
She hesitates. I recognize the look instantly: guarded. Like a door slamming shut halfway.
I ignore it.
“Does he walk home alone?” I ask.
“Not really. But the school is pretty close,” she says. “We usually go on foot. I guess he could have learned the way, but…” She drags in a deep breath. “It’s not a nice neighborhood. Ours.”
Not niceis the understatement of the century. They live in the heart of my territory. It’s not the kind of place you want to go without a gun, or even with one. The Bronx is a living thing: everything that belongs is blanketed by its darkness, protected.
And everything that doesn’t is chewed up and spit out in pieces.
“Does he know the neighborhood well?” I press.
“A little.”
“Friends nearby?”
