I force the words out. Rough. Cracked. But steady. “I know who you are.”
“Do you?” He seems pleased by this. “Then you know I’m not a man who wastes time. So let me be direct.” He leans back. Patient. Certain. “Your Santoro is tearing New Orleans apart right now looking for you. I’m curious how long it will take him to find this place.” A pause. “If he bothers at all.”
“He’s not mine.” Convincing, maybe, if my hands weren’t shaking.
“Mmm.” Flavio’s smile says he doesn’t believe me. “He locked you in a panic room, didn’t he? To protect you. And you escaped because you don’t like being told what to do.” He chuckles. “I admire that, actually. Spirit. It’s rare.”
“Spirit is a nice word for it. Most call me difficult.”
“Most underestimate you.” He leans forward. “I won’t make that mistake.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” His tone shifts to business. “You and I are going to have a conversation. About what you know, who you’ve shared it with, and what it would take to make you cooperate.” He pauses. “And if Lorenzo Santoro does come for you, well. That will make things even more interesting.”
“You’re counting on it.” Not a question.
“He comes for me, and you’re ready. I was never the point.”
“You’re smarter than he deserves.” Flavio’s gaze sharpens. “Though I’d argue you’re very much the point. Just not the only one.”
“And if he doesn’t come?”
“He will.” He says it like he’s remarking on the weather. Like fact. “Men like Lorenzo don’t take losing things well. He’ll come loud and angry and he’ll walk into the scenario exactly as I’veprepared it.” He brushes his knee. “The question isn’t whether. It’s what you’ll do when he gets here.”
“You’re assuming I’ll be in this chair.”
A flicker crosses his features. Not amusement. Reassessment.
“I like you, Ghost.” He stands. Buttons his jacket. “That’s going to make this harder for both of us.”
The door closes behind him.
I’m alone again. Shaking. But the fury is mine.
You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Either of us.
I go back to working the restraint on my right wrist. The plastic is warmer now. Fractionally looser. I hold Flavio Benedetti’s words in my head. Map them. Flag them. Wait.
And I keep working.
24
LORENZO
The bike is on its side in the gravel. Nico’s Ducati. The one I told him to keep locked in the garage. Keys in the ignition because Nico treats a sixty-thousand-dollar machine like a bicycle outside a bodega.
I crouch. The skid mark runs forty feet before the rear tire blew. Rubber peeled back to the rim. The gravel is torn up where she went down, long gouges in the dirt that end at the cracked helmet sitting six feet from the bike. Blood on the gravel. Not much. Enough.
I pick up the helmet. The visor is shattered. A scrape along the left side where it hit the road, deep enough to expose the foam underneath. She was wearing this. She hit the ground hard enough to crack the shell.
My chest does something I don’t let it do. I crush it flat.
Tire tracks. Two vehicles, parked in a V-formation. They boxed her in. Planned it. Knew which road she’d take, knew she’d be alone, knew she’d be moving fast on a bike she’d never ridden before.
I stand. The helmet in my hand. The gravel crunching under my boots. Nico is three feet behind me. Dante to his left. Marcohangs back near the SUV, arms crossed, staring at the skid marks like they’re his fault.
I turn. Hit Nico. Open palm across the jaw, hard enough to snap his head sideways.
He takes it. Doesn’t raise a hand. His tongue finds the split in his lip and he nods once. Like he’s been waiting for it.
