The shame is hot and acidic in my throat.
“Iamready,” I force out.
“Then prove it. You have one week. Get the rest of your intel and finish the primary objective.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded stack of cash and a torn piece of paper, and shoves both at my chest. I catch them automatically.
“Here,” he says. “For a burner and whatever else you need. Call that number within twenty-four hours to check in. No exceptions. No excuses.”
I stare down at the paper in my hand for a second, at the hard slant of his writing.
Then his next words make my blood go cold.
“If the week runs out and it’s not done, I tell Lorenzo everything I saw here tonight. And if Lorenzo sends Dario after that, there won’t be a conversation.”
The surf seems to get louder. Or maybe that’s just the rush of blood in my ears.
Dario.
My brother’s face flashes through my head. Calm where I’m not. Steady where I never seem to be. Trusted without having to ask for it. Loved without having to fight so hard for proof. He’d never say it cruelly. That would almost be easier. He’d just look at me with that tight line between his brows and ask what the hell I was thinking, and somehow that would be worse.
Because underneath it would always be the same thing.
Can you blame me for expecting this from you?
I squeeze the cash so hard that the edges bite into my palm.
Paolo’s voice drops a fraction. “Do not make me do that.”
“I won’t,” I say, trying not to let anything show on my face.
It’s a lie and not a lie. I won’t make him do it if I can help it. I just have no fucking clue how I’m supposed to stop the train that’s already halfway off the tracks.
Paolo searches my face one last time. Maybe he sees more than I want him to. Maybe he sees exactly enough. Not enough to blow up the whole thing tonight, but enough to know this is not clean. Not even close.
His hand comes down on my shoulder, heavy and brief.
Not a hug. Not comfort.
Just pressure. A warning. A reminder. Family and threat all tangled up in one simple touch.
“You begged for this job.” He squeezes my shoulder. “So finish it like a man who was worth trusting with it.”
Then he steps back, turns, and starts walking down the beach without another word.
I watch him go until the dark swallows him.
The tension doesn’t leave with him. It coils in my gut, a venomous snake.
I barely make it to the side of the porch before my stomach comes up hard and vicious, acid burning the back of my throat, one hand braced against a support post while the other still crushes the cash and Paolo’s number into a damp, wrinkled mess.
My whole body shakes with it. Once. Twice. A third time that leaves nothing but sour spit and the kind of emptiness that feels worse than being sick.
I stay bent over, breathing through my mouth.
The night air feels cold against my bare back now. The boards under my hand are rough and splintered. Somewhere above me the porch light buzzes faintly, the warm glow catching on the railings Natalia leaned against while she smiled at me over her coffee.
I straighten too fast. The world tilts. Black spots swarm the edges of my vision and then clear.
