He comes in carrying a duffel bag, wearing a dark coat with fur around the hood and dark wash jeans with a hole in them. Blood he poorly cleaned spreading over his collarbone. I don't ask, because I don't give a shit. He drops the bag by the door and sighs at the state of my apartment.
"I need food," he says. "You have nothing in this apartment."
"There's your Thai place."
"Sick of Thai. I want something else."
"Pizza. Passyunk."
He goes out and comes back twenty minutes later with a box and two bottles of water. We eat standing at the counter because the only chairs face the window. Danila noticed this the first time hewas here. He notices it again now, his mouth twisting up as he rolls his eyes and grabs another slice. My eyes drop to his hands. The star tattoo between his thumb and index finger, faded but clear. Gold rings on three fingers catching the overhead light. Angular jaw. Expensive clothes that aren’t gaudy or flashy.
He showed me that tattoo in the backyard of a house in Queens where we were both pretending to be kids who didn't kill people. Vor v Zakone. He was twenty-three when he got it. He's thirty-five now. The star has been part of his hand for so long I forget it's there until I look.
"I went to the restaurant," I say.
He stops chewing. "You went inside."
"Four times."
"And?"
"She was my server."
He puts the pizza down and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. Patient. He's always been patient with me, since before either of us knew what we were becoming. He knows whatever I'm about to say is going to come out in pieces and he'll have to assemble it himself.
"What's she like?" he says.
I think about Grace bringing coffee without being asked. The chair facing the door. The freckle below her ear. Her arm against my shoulder, two seconds of contact that burned through every boundary I set.
"She serves well."
He snorts but doesn't press. "The Marinos. You been watching them?"
"Check-in call should be within the week. Paul makes it from the back of the house."
"When are you moving?"
"Day after the call. Longest window."
Danila pulls his phone and scrolls. "Reports go to a handler, not the Silent directly. A layer between. Handler follows up within seventy-two hours of a missed report. If the handler can't reach them, the network sends someone. Five to six days from the missed report, tops."
"Five days."
"At most." He pockets the phone. "There's something else. My people picked up chatter about the placement network tightening protocols. The Harrisons' restructuring is making the Silent's middle management nervous. Handlers are checking assets more frequently. Some are pulling placements."
"Pulling them where?"
"Relocating. New cities, new identities, new families. If the handler assigned to the Marinos gets nervous before you move, they could relocate Grace."
The knife is in my hand. I don't remember pulling it.
"How likely?" I ask.
"I don't know. I'm hearing fragments. But the window is narrower than you think. If you're going to move, move soon."
"After the check-in."
"After the check-in," he agrees. He picks up his duffel. "I have to go. Business. I'll be gone ten days, maybe more. Things are moving and I need to be present."
