The phrase is careful.
Too careful.
I stare at the table. “That is what everyone says right before a child loses someone.”
Victor does not rush to deny it. He has known enough loss to understand cheap reassurance.
“They need you,” he says after a moment. “They also need more than one person who would burn the world down for them.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “That sounds like a criticism.”
“It is an observation.”
“From a man wearing a wool coat in a heated café.”
His mouth shifts.
Then he reaches inside his jacket and places a sealed envelope on the table.
My pulse stumbles.
“What is that?”
“Information.”
I do not touch it.
“From whom?”
Victor looks toward the window, where rain has begun ticking softly against the glass.
“Stefano.”
The room narrows.
I hate that one name still has the power to do that.
“He contacted you?”
“Not directly.”
“Victor.”
“He made certain arrangements before Boston,” he says. “For the twins. For you.”
My throat tightens. “What arrangements?”
“He has people watching the house. Discreetly.”
Anger rises first. Familiar. Easy.
“He also had legal counsel prepared to support the placement. Quietly. No Savarese name attached. No pressure on the court. No leverage against you.”
I look down at the envelope.
“He could have told me.”
“He could have.”
