Carlo nodded, scribbled something in his notebook. "And Matteo..."
"Leave Matteo alone for now," I said. "Let him think I don't know he made the introduction. Don't touch him until we know who's behind him."
Carlo looked up, said nothing, and crossed out that line.
Outside, New York looked like it always did. Traffic, crowds, sunlight bouncing off glass towers, blinding.
I leaned back in my chair, flipped the photo face down. Stopped looking at it.
Someone would answer for this.
But first, I needed to know how big this game really was.
I turned, grabbed my coat, and strode out.
The club's kitchen was in the basement.
I changed into a plain jacket. When I walked into the kitchen, nobody gave me a second glance. Kitchen staff only cared about what was in front of them. Nobody had time to size up unfamiliar faces. I appreciated that. Focus is a virtue.
I found Phil at the dish station.
Thirty-five, greasy hair, old burn scar on the back of his hand. Hunched over a sink full of depressingly stacked dirty plates, spinecurved, shoulders hunched, whole body like a rat used to cowering in corners.
In a sense, he was.
I hadn't gotten my hands dirty like this in a long time. This kind of collection work usually had people to handle it—Federico, or the guys who specialized in "communication." I just sat in the office, watched numbers on spreadsheets, listened to reports, nodded or shook my head.
Clean, efficient, bloodless.
But today was different.
I needed this. Needed the feeling of a blade cutting into bone. Needed to hear screaming. Needed to see blood. Something in my chest had been burning since I saw that photo, burning so hot I couldn't sit still.
I needed release.
And Phil Hector, this idiot who owed me four months and still had the nerve to keep dealing on my turf, just walked right into the crosshairs.
"Phil."
His spine locked.
He turned around and saw me. His face cycled through shock, panic, attempted composure, and failed composure—all in one second. Expression management: failing grade. But given his profession, it didn't matter.
"Ez—sir, I-I didn't know you—"
"Walk." I tilted my chin at him. "Bathroom."
"I'm working right now, the kitchen manager said—"
"Phil."
He lowered his head, wiped his hands on his apron, and followed.
The back kitchen bathroom was tiny. Grout between the tiles blackened, fluorescent light buzzing. I shut the door, took the knife from inside my jacket, and set it casually on the counter. No flourish. Just let it speak for itself.
Phil's breathing immediately went ragged.
"Five thousand three hundred dollars." My tone stayed flat, likereciting unimportant numbers. "What you owe me, plus interest. Four whole months."
