When the food arrived, I had to go down to the lobby to get it myself. Stand at the front desk like a regular person while the delivery guy handed over a plastic bag.
This definitely wasn't The Regis.
Riding the elevator back up, clutching my sad little bag of pasta, I understood.
Carlo had done this on purpose.
The message was subtle but clear:Remember your place. Remember who you are. Remember that all the designer clothes and expensive hotels and proximity to power? That's a privilege. One that can be taken away.
He was reminding me that I was dispensable.
Or maybe—maybe he was protecting me. Keeping me isolated so no one else in the family would know I was back. So I'd be safe until the meeting.
I wanted to believe that. Desperately.
I'd bet money there were watchers on the hotel. A couple of soldiers making sure I didn't run. That was fine. I had nowhere to go anyway. No one I could see. And honestly? I was too exhausted and terrified to leave this room.
Carlo had never mistreated me before. Never lied to me. He wasn't our father—no one could replace Papa—but he was a good man. A capable leader.
Please let him be fair. Please let him listen.
I turned on the TV. Found a show about an international serial killer who murdered tourists in the jungle. Watched bodies being hidden, evidence being destroyed, families left with nothing but questions.
Perfect.
I ate my pasta without tasting it.
Napped fitfully, dreams full of blood and betrayal.
Woke up and ate half the Snickers. Then a handful of chips. Then another handful. Both flavors, obviously. Who doesn't eat Onion & Garlic chips when they're alone and possibly facing execution?
The hours crawled by like years.
At eight o'clock, I took a scalding shower, letting the water burn my skin until I felt something other than numb terror. Put on the clothes from my go-bag. At least they were practical—slacks, a simple blouse, flats I could run in if I needed to.
You're not going to need to run. Carlo will listen. He has to listen.
I checked out at nine sharp. Met the limo at the curb.
The driver was the same kid who'd taken me for pizza that first week. A lifetime ago, when I'd thought this assignment would be simple. When I'd thought I could kill a man and walk away unscathed.
He opened the door without speaking.
I tried for levity, desperate for anything to feel normal. "You look a year older."
"Driving in this city ages you fast." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Word from Carlo is no stops."
"Expected."
He shut the door. Got behind the wheel. Didn't say another word.
The silence pressed in as we pulled away from the hotel, heading toward Howard Beach.
Toward my family.
Toward whatever judgment waited for me.
I pressed my forehead against the cold window and whispered into the darkness: "Please let Quentin be alive. Please let him be safe."
