In the interrogation room, she sat with her ankles crossed and her spine so straight you could've used it as a level. I asked her what she knew about the financial ledgers she'd accessed at Marchetti Holdings. She looked at me the way you'd look at a stain on a restaurant menu. Mildly annoyed. Slightly disgusted.
"I know they're fake," she'd said. "I know someone's laundering money, and I know whoever built that architecture is more competent than anyone in this room. Including you."
Including me.
I'd wanted to laugh. I didn't. But I'd wanted to, and that was new enough to bother me.
"The hit team," I say to Leone. "The response time doesn't work."
"I know."
"Someone inside picked up the phone. Someone with access to our intake system."
"I know that too."
"So we've still got a rat."
Leone nods. His mouth is tight, teeth grinding down. He accepted Renzo like one of the brothers right up until the moment he realized the truth, and the betrayal left a wound that hasn't scabbed over. Finding out there's a second one is salt in a cut that's still raw.
"Instead of holing yourself up in here, I need you on two things," he says. "The woman, and the mole. Figure out what she knows, what she saw inside Marchetti, what makes her valuable enough to send contractors after. And find whoever made that call."
"In that order?"
"In whatever order keeps everyone breathing." He stands. Pauses at the door. "Claudio."
"What."
"Don't be an asshole to her. She's been through enough."
I look at him. "When am I ever an asshole?"
He stares at me for a long second, then leaves without answering. Which is, in itself, an answer.
The corridor to the east wing is cold at this hour. The compound bleeds heat through its concrete like a wound that won't close.I walk it with my hands in my pockets and my collar turned up because fuck this building and its Soviet-era insulation.
Two guards at the east wing entrance. They see me coming and straighten like someone shoved a rod up their spines. I nod once and keep moving.
Her door is at the end of the hall. Nice suite. Aurelio's orders. Good sheets, private bathroom, meals from the kitchen instead of whatever slop the grunts eat. The accommodations say "guest." The keypad says otherwise.
I knock. Count to three. Swipe the keycard.
She's sitting cross-legged on the bed with a three-day-old newspaper spread across her lap. The clothes we gave her fit well because I had someone take her measurements while she was in medical getting checked over. Dark slacks, white blouse, flats. She wears them like she’s going to some fucking business meeting. Every button done up, every crease sharp, like the clothes are a uniform for a war only she knows she's fighting.
She doesn't look up.
"If you're here to stare at me, you could at least bring coffee."
I lean against the doorframe. "Black or cream?"
Now she looks up. Blue eyes. Not warm blue. Not sky blue. The cold blue of deep water where the light doesn't reach. Her facegives me nothing. No fear, no gratitude that I'm asking instead of demanding. Just a woman processing a question and running it through whatever mental filing system she uses to sort the world into ‘good men’ and ‘bad men’.
"Black. One sugar. Leave the spoon in the cup."
I almost smile. Specific. Demanding. And completely unbothered by the fact that she's making requests of a man who could snap her neck without breaking a sweat.
"Noted, principessa."
Her eyes narrow. Just a fraction. The nickname lands exactly where I aimed it. She doesn't like it. I hold back the chuckle that threatens to escape.
