"But he's not outside," Sabine insisted, voice rising. "He's part of this. He's the one who connected me with your team in the first place."
The muscles in my jaw tightened. "Protocol. No exceptions."
"Fuck protocol." Her hands clenched at her sides. "Something's wrong."
I held her gaze steady. "If your editor knows you're safe, he can tell them. If he hasn't, there's a reason."
The implication hung between us. Sabine took a step back, her reporter's mind visibly connecting dots I wished she wouldn't connect.
"Why hasn't Mark said anything?" she whispered, more to herself than to me. "Where is Mark?"
I watched her face cycle through confusion, realization, and finally, dread. The question neither of us voiced filled the room: What if something had happened to him?
Her breathing quickened. I recognized the signs of panic building and fought the urge to reach for her. Comfort wasn't my job. Security was.
"Sabine," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "We don't know anything yet."
She looked up at me, her eyes suddenly sharp. "If Mark knows I'm safe and isn't saying it..."
She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to. We both knew what it meant if her editor was deliberately letting her be reported missing. Either he was compromised, or he was dead.
I turned back to the TV, scanning the ticker at the bottom for any other news that might connect. Nothing yet. But if the Bellantes had gotten to Mark, it was only a matter of time before they found their way to us.
The anchor continued, her voice maintaining that perfect blend of concern and excitement that only comes from reporting other people's tragedies.
"Police are asking for the public's help in identifying a woman found dead in the Harbor East district early this week."
An artist's sketch replaced Sabine's headshot on screen. The woman had high cheekbones, dark hair pulled back tight.
"The victim, believed to be in her late twenties, was found five days ago with severe trauma," the anchor continued. "Her right hand had been severed. Anyone with information should contact police."
My shoulders tensed as the kitchen door swung open. Alex stumbled in, hair wild, clothes rumpled. She hadn't slept. Her eyes caught the screen, narrowed, then widened.
"Fuck," she whispered.
I watched her face carefully. "You know who it is?"
Alex didn't look away from the screen. "That's Gina D'Angelo. She was Ma's hairdresser." Her voice grew quieter. "Ma went to see her twice a week for the last couple years before she..." She swallowed. "Before she was murdered."
I kept my voice neutral. "Her right hand was missing."
Alex's jaw tightened. "Seriously? What the fuck, Lorenzo?" She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, leaving it standing in odd directions.
The implications settled like lead in my stomach. The Bellantes were going after everyone who could have been the mole. Anyone Isabella Bellante mighthave confided in before her death. Innocent people were dying while we hid in this house.
"She didn't know anything," Alex said, voice tight with controlled fury. "She did hair and talked about reality TV. That was it."
Her fist clenched on the counter, knuckles white against the granite. I recognized the effort it took her not to show weakness, not to let the guilt overwhelm her. But I saw it anyway. I always did.
Across the kitchen, Sabine watched Alex with new understanding dawning in her eyes. This was real. People were dying. The Scorpions, Lorenzo's crew of enforcers, didn't care about collateral damage. They would burn down the city looking for their traitor.
The three of us stood frozen in the kitchen, the news anchor's voice fading to background noise as we processed what this meant. The net was tightening. Every day, Lorenzo's list of suspects grew shorter. Every day, he got closer to looking at his inner circle.
I glanced at Sabine, then back at Alex. They had the same determined set to their jaws, like they were both thinking the same thing I was: time was running out.
"I need to make some calls," Alex muttered, already heading for the door. "Cam needs to know about this. We need to adjust the perimeter schedule."
She left without waiting for a response. The kitchen felt colder without her presence. The news still playing its grim soundtrack to our morning, but I barely registered the words anymore. My mind was already calculating timelines, probabilities, escape routes.
