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The moment I step outside her apartment building, rain hits my face. I quickly duck into the car and call Nico.
“It’s done,” I tell him. “She’ll be coming with me.”
He exhales. “Tomas called Viktor Volkov. I need you to know that before you bring her here.”
The engine ticks in the quiet. It almost feels like the dread inside my body is ticking with it, like a timebomb.
Tomas has always been careful, always precise. And it occurs to me that he’s now thrown all caution to the wind because he’s desperate.
Desperate men are dangerous. If Tomas is feeding rival gangs, a war is brewing, and I just dragged Lucia into the cross fire.
Chapter 7
Lucia
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Marco’s car with my suitcase in the trunk and Matteo’s photo in my lap. I have the distinct clinical awareness that I may have committed the worst mistake of my adult life, and I once told my surgical residency director that his methodology was outdated in front of twelve second-year residents and a visiting trauma fellow.
The George Washington Bridge swallows us in a rush of steel and suspension cables as Manhattan shrinks in the side mirror until it’s just a smudge of light behind us. Twenty minutes later, the city scatters, replaced by tree-lined roads, ivy-covered walls, and the quiet wealth of northern New Jersey.
The Benedettis are clearly the embodiment of old money.
We arrive past one in the morning to a compound lit so well that I can barely spot any shadows. Floodlights wash the stone walls in pale gold, throwing sharp shadows across manicured grounds. Iron gates gleam under lamps mounted to pillars, and security cameras sit tucked into ivy, the tiny red dots of their indicator lights blinking like trapped fireflies.
This kind of surveillance would earn a respectful nod from a Secret Service agent, while a real estate agent would likely develop a stress rash.
Outside the car, the gate slides open with a low mechanical hum.
I mentally catalogue our entry so I can construct an exit plan. I seek out blind spots, noting the compound’s outline in a way that I didn’t bother to the last time I visited.
If someone fires from the tree line, where do I run? How far to the nearest stone column for cover?
When we come upon a kitchen garden along the eastern wall, I lose focus. The aromas of rosemary, tomatoes, and leafy greens with warm herbal scents entice my nose. A large German Shepherd trots parallel to the fence with the deeply affronted expression of an animal whose entire life’s purpose is built around being hostile to strangers.
Marco drives through the compound, dashboard lights carving shadows along his jaw and the open collar of his shirt. He’s got just one hand on the wheel, and his forearm flexes as he drives. I can’t stop watching the tendons ripple beneath his olive skin, and my eyes trace the veins from his wrist to where they disappear under his rolled sleeve.
I glance away, hoping he didn’t catch me staring.
He parks near the detached stone structure that I visited a few days back and cuts the engine.
“My quarters.”
I take in the building, then turn to him.
“I’ve seen your ‘quarters,’ Marco. One room. One bed. Please tell me you’ve made other arrangements.”
His pause confirms my dread. Before I can spiral into the logistical horror of square footage and mattress dimensions, the door to the main house opens.
Sophia Ricci, who I recognize from my last visit, carries out a casserole dish covered in foil. Her apron, which says “Al Dente or Nothing” in hand-embroidered letters, doesn’t match my mental profile of the Benedetti padrino’s wife. Her belly bump doesn’t slow her down much, and she seems radiant and energetic for a woman in her second trimester.
She waves us into the house, and her gaze finds mine the moment I step through the door. Without breaking eye contact, she passes the casserole sideways to Marco, who instinctively accepts it.
“I could tell from your text that you didn’t eat today, so I made enough lasagna for two.” Her next words are warm, unhurried, and entirely for me. “I figured you’d be hungry and that he wouldn’t think to ask.”
I anticipated suspicion and even veiled threats. I thought the women here would look down on me or hate me for not being a typical crime lord’s wife.
Instead, I get lasagna.
“Thank you.” My words feel both insufficient and dangerously sincere.
