"The kitchen," he says quietly.
"Yeah."
"That was new."
"Yeah."
He holds my gaze for one more second before he heads out.
Cole is on my left starting with the first drill. The timing is sharper today, half a beat faster than it's been all season. His blade arrives at the release point before I expect it, and I adjust. The next pass comes earlier too. We're running hot, the adrenaline from the kitchen burning through the ice, and Addison sees it.
"Watch that," he says to the rest of the line. "That's what it's supposed to look like."
When the drill resets, I glance up. The press box catches my attention before the scoreboard does. Third row left. Laptop open. The thought of her lavender reaches me before the room settles into shape around her, and I track her seat with the same part of my brain that tracks ice, exits, angles, and threats. The whistle cuts through the rink before I look too long.
Addison blows the final whistle. The locker room fills with steam and noise. I shower and dress.
Cole is still pulling tape when I grab my bag.
"Eating?" he asks.
"Meeting first. I'll be back in an hour."
He looks up, and the question in his face lands before he speaks. "Marco?"
"Yeah."
He nods once and goes back to his tape.
Elm Street is two blocks away, and Marco is already inside the coffee shop when I get there, tucked into the back corner booth with his face to the door. Of course he is. Our father taught us that before he taught us how to order for a table.
Espresso waits in a ceramic cup on a saucer. His overcoat is still buttoned. When he lifts his hand, his watch catches the overhead light. He sits the way our father sits in restaurants, likethe table was set for him before the room existed and everyone else walked in late.
I slide into the seat across from him. A waitress sets a black coffee in front of me without asking. Marco's arrangement.
"Providence is handled," Marco says. "I confirmed the filings this morning." He takes a sip of espresso. "That's not what I drove up for."
I wait.
"There's a new matter." The cup lowers slightly. "The Chronicle."
My jaw tightens before I give it permission. The rest of me stays still. "What about it?"
"Papà has been reading it. Or someone on his behalf has." Marco glances at the cup in his hand before continuing. "The coverage of the hockey program. Game reports. Features. Tactical analysis. Detailed work." He pauses. "Papà thinks she could be useful."
"No."
The word leaves my mouth before Marco finishes swallowing the espresso, before the rest of the sentence finishes forming in my head.
Marco's head tilts. The cup stops halfway back to the saucer. "I didn't finish," he says.
"You don't need to." My hands stay around my coffee. "She's a journalist. She covers hockey. She has nothing to do with the family's business, and she's not going to."
"Dante." Marco's voice stays level. "I'm relaying."
"Then relay this." I lean forward slightly. "If anyone contacts her, anyone from the compound, anyone connected to Papà, I will know about it."
Marco studies me across the table. "You will know about it," he repeats slowly. "You. Personally."
