When Gemma disappeared into the library, she went deep — submerged beneath layers of books and blankets and the particular stillness that came over her when she was truly at peace. She was probably curled on the window seat right now. Caravaggio tucked under one arm. The cashmere blanket pooled around her knees.
The image settled in my chest. Warm. Steady. The counterweight to everything else in this room.
Marco's voice pulled me back. “If we move on Meridian next week, we need the filing agent's cooperation locked in by Friday. That gives us—"
"Three days." I set the phone face-down on the desk. "Do it. And get me the names of Enzo's investors in the Lincoln Park development. If we're squeezing the pipe, I want to know who screams first."
Marco nodded. Already typing.
Santo finished his sub. Wiped his hands on a napkin with the perfunctory attention of a man who regarded cleanliness as a concession to civilization rather than a priority. He stood. Stretched. Shoulders rolling, neck cracking, the restless energy of a body that had been sitting too long and wanted to be doing rather than planning.
"I can have eyes on the Cicero warehouse by tomorrow night," he said. "Two guys. Quiet. Just watching."
"Watching only," I said. "Nobody moves until I say."
His jaw tightened. The instinct to argue — always there, always simmering. But he swallowed it. Nodded once. Sat back down and picked up the red marker.
That’s when my phone rang.
The caller ID glowed on the dark screen: Tomaso Ferrara.
Tomaso didn't call.
I answered.
"Don Caruso." Tomaso's voice was wrong. Stripped of its usual measured calm and rebuilt from something thinner — the professional cadence still intact, but underneath it, the ragged edge of a man speaking through chemical fog. Tight. Clipped. Each word placed with the deliberate care of someone fighting to stay functional. "I need to report an incident at the residence."
"Report."
"I regained consciousness eleven minutes ago on the kitchen floor." He said regained consciousness the way a doctor said it — clinical, precise, refusing to use the word that meant the same thing but carried more fear. "My partner Gianni was found unconscious in the rear garden. Nico was located in the garage, restrained with zip ties. All three members of the detail were incapacitated by what I believe was a fast-acting sedative — likely administered through an aerosol delivery system, based on the residual effects I'm currently experiencing."
The words entered my brain and arranged themselves into a picture I couldn't look at yet. I held them at arm's length. Kept them in the operational register where facts were facts and emotions were a luxury I'd pay for later.
"Continue."
"I've conducted a full sweep of the residence." A pause. The kind that lasted half a second and contained everything. "Mrs. Caruso is not in the house."
The sentence landed.
"No sign of forced entry," Tomaso said. "No sign of struggle on the main floor. The library shows some displacement but no damage. No blood."
No blood.
I held onto that. Gripped it like a rope over a chasm.
"The perimeter cameras?" My voice came out steady. I heard it from a distance — the don's voice, operating on its own power supply, disconnected from the man inside who was falling.
"Disabled. Feeds cut at approximately 3:45 PM. Professionally done — the recording hardware was physically disconnected, not digitally compromised. They were inside the security infrastructure."
Inside. They knew the system. Knew the camera positions, the recording setup, the guard rotation. This wasn't opportunistic. This was architecture. Weeks of surveillance. Weeks of planning.Someone had mapped my home the way Marco mapped Valenti's shell companies — methodically, patiently, with the cold precision of a predator who understood that the kill began long before the strike.
"Lock the scene down," I said. "Don't touch anything. Don't let anyone in or out until I arrive. Call Dr. Marchetti for you and your men — I want blood work on all three of you. I want to know exactly what they used."
"Yes, sir. Don Caruso — I—"
"Not now, Tomaso."
I hung up.
