His eyes go slightly wide for a millisecond.
Gotcha, bitch.
"You shouldn't know these things. It's not safe for you."
"I'm not looking to stay safe. I'm here for answers, and you're going to give them to me."
He laughs dryly. "Americani…always in such a hurry to die."
"I'm not going to die."
But you are.
He reaches for his glass, swirling what's left before takinganother swig. "There are names we don't speak in this house. Women we don't mention. Deals we pretend never happened. It keeps the world balanced."
"For who?"
"For everyone."
"That's a lot of protection for one woman."
He studies me for a long beat, then shakes his head like I'm the fool in the room. "You should go home. This isn't your business. Forget about it. Forget about her. Good-looking guy like you can have any woman he wants. It's time to move on."
Well, all hope of making this a quick visit just went to shit.
"You really shouldn't have said that."
He smirks. "Is that a threat, Signor Barlowe?"
I shake my head. "Patience, old man."
He pushes to his feet and heads for the door, clearly done with me. "Any woman you describe is no one I know."
A loud thud echoes somewhere below us.
"Let me help you remember," I say, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. My voice stays level—it's the only thing that does. "New York City roughly seven months ago. Mortelle family revamp. The Irish girl working in the shadows. She looked like she hadn't slept in weeks. Bruised before the takedown. Disappeared before anyone even noticed."
He knows exactly who I'm talking about.
"You move bodies," I continue. "Someone paid you to make her disappear, and I need to know who."
Romano's hand pauses on the door handle.
"You think you're dangerous. I understand. You have the suit. The name. The reputation." He gives a slow shrug. "But there's someone above all this. Above me and you. Above the families you think matter. He doesn't need people to fear his name because they don't say it."
The first real uncertainty of the night threads through me. There are a dozen possibilities, but I'm drawing a blank. His description doesn't bring anything to mind.
Nick's dry whisper cuts into my ear. "He's talking about the Ferryman."
"The Ferryman," I repeat aloud.
The color drains from Romano's face.
"We don't utter that name here," he whispers.
"But you know who I mean."
He doesn't answer. "You should go now."
