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“We can get ice cream. Do a little shopping. Dinner and a movie? I’ve been craving that movie-theater popcorn ever since I was in the cell.” She turns her head toward me. “You?”

Seamus shakes his head. “I can see you’ll have plenty to occupy you between now and then. And Torin?”

I grunt.

“Stay safe, brother. Our ultimate goal here should be to drive them to Ballyhock. Bring them here. They will be fewer in number, and you’ll have the backing of our entire family behind you.”

Bring them here.

I nod, ignoring how fucking badly I want that. To be home. A united front.

“Are you satisfied?” I ask her as we hang up the phone and I tuck it away. She shrugs and leans back in her seat, but I'm not really looking forward to what Seamus said we have to do next. I know. I understand.

“How's the pain level?”

“It's fine,” she says, looking out the window.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not anymore.”

“You should eat something.”

“I'm not hungry,” she says. I can tell she's turned inward for a reason I don't understand. Maybe I'll revisit it later. Maybe I won't.

We park in a large parking garage in the center of Boston, and I consider, just for a second, leaving the tracker here and taking her out to dinner, wining and dining her, knowing they're not going to find us, not now. But I can't. I have to do what Seamus told me to do, and we are on a mission.

The first thing I notice is how she keeps pace. Not a step behind, not crowding me, just there, matching me without being told. I don't know what I expected. Maybe that I'd have to manage her or tell her what to do, but she just falls into line.

I know what it’s costing her. She’s landing short on the left. It comes down light and comes up fast. It’s hurting her. I slow by half a step. She matches me, and neither of us mentions it.

We move east first, in no particular hurry. It's a busy fall day in Boston. Tourists walk with cameras, toting around white pastry boxes from the Italian pastry shops in town. In the distance, cargo boats lean on deep bass horns, and the sound of an airplane landing at Logan drowns everything else out for a moment.

Somewhere out there, we are a moving target, and our enemies know where we are. I expected to be less bothered by it. I want to bring these people in front of me, line them up, and put bullets between their heads like a fucking firing squad would.

I've got the tracker in my pocket, and it's live, which means anyone watching the signal right now is watching us walk the waterfront as if we don't have a fucking care in the goddamn world. Good. Let them look.

Valentina doesn't ask me any questions about where we're going. We walk for ten minutes before I cut north without warning, no signal, no word, just a direction change, and she takes it without breaking stride. I don't look at her because I don't need to. We're on the same page. We're on the same team, for now. But the second time I make a cut, she's half a beat ahead of me, and I stop walking.

She stops, too, and turns around.

“Where are you going?”

She tips her head toward the cross street. “You were going to cut again.”

“Was I?”

She lets out a mirthless laugh. “Torin, you've been doing it every ten minutes. Left, right, left. You're not random, and you're not rotating.” She pauses. “You're predictable as hell. I'd mix it up if I were you.”

I look at her for a moment. There’s a man in a gray jacket I don’t trust.

I cut left. She falls back into step exactly beside me, close enough that I'm aware of the space between us. She did it on purpose, testing the distance, seeing if I'd widen it. I don't.

Did we lose him?

We cross into the North End, and she slows fractionally, taking stock, just like me. The smell of garlic and tomatoes lingers in the air.

“Now are you hungry?”