Page 52 of The Devils in the Details

The conclave sat in front of me like something physical, and beside me, a five-foot-five blond with a conspiracy wall and a brain that moved faster than most people could speak and the absolute conviction that sleep was something that happened to other people.

I could work with that.

I’d have to.

Chapter Thirteen

~ Aristoteles ~

I sat at my desk with the lighter flicking between my fingers—open, shut, open—the rhythm steady under the tight cone of the desk lamp. The flame caught and died, caught and died, orange against the dark wood of the study, and I didn’t think about the calls. Thinking was a luxury. Execution was the job.

Zephyr’s laptop was already angled on the desk to my right, screen tilted just so, the camera positioned to capture the whiteboard behind him. His work. The color-coded web of Alexios’s financial architecture rendered in marker on six feet of plastic, and the fact that I was about to broadcast it to three crime bosses who had no reason to trust me was either suicidal or the only move that made sense.

A bowl of caramels sat at my elbow. Gold foil gleaming in the lamplight, stacked in a loose pyramid. Zephyr had placed it there without comment, which meant he understood what these calls would cost me. Sugar as armor. Pragmatic risk management. No further thought required.

I dialed Tony D’Angelo first.

The number rang twice. A short, heavy silence, and then Tony’s voice came through with the flatness of a man who had been expecting bad news and wasn’t disappointed to receive it.

“Romano.”

No warmth. No greeting. Just my name in his mouth like something he was tasting to see if it had gone bad. I appreciated the efficiency. Most men wasted air on formalities. D’Angelo treated conversation the way I treated obstacles—as something to be cleared rather than negotiated.

“Secured line,” I said. “Five minutes. Bring one aide. Intelligence you need before the conclave.”

A pause. The sound of someone making a calculation and deciding the math worked in his favor.

“Two minutes.” His voice didn’t change. The flatness stayed, steady as bedrock. “I’ve got a perimeter breach that needs my attention more than whatever Romano problem you’re sitting on.”

“Four minutes.” I didn’t negotiate. “Or you walk into the conclave with a blind spot. Your call.”

Another pause. Longer this time, weighted with the gravity of a man who understood exactly what “blind spot” meant in our vocabulary.

“Three.” The line went dead.

I set the phone down. Picked it up again. Luca Sabatino was next.

He answered on the first ring. Always the first ring. The man treated phones like firearms—something you kept close and answered immediately because the alternative was learning to regret it.

“Romano.”

Same greeting. No warmth. The cadence of a man who had built his life on directness and saw no reason to abandon it for something as decorative as courtesy.

“Secured line,” I said. “Five minutes. One aide. Intelligence on Alexios.”

I didn’t say “Romano.” Didn’t need to. The name hung between us like something already spoken, the gravity of a surname that had become synonymous with certain categories of problem.

“You’ve got evidence.” Not a question. The tone of a man who had been expecting this call for longer than either of us was willing to admit.

“Enough.”

“I’m in.” The line went dead.

Sabatino had taken thirteen seconds. I filed that under “useful data” and moved to the third call. I wouldn’t normally call Vinnie Borelli because he was based in New York, but he was the underboss of the Borelli family in New York and in Italy. Besides, dealing with him was easier than dealing with his grandfather.

Borelli answered on the second ring. Vinnie’s voice came through with the polished authority of a man who treated conversation as a performance and had rehearsed this role enough times to make it sound effortless.

“Aristoteles.” My full name in his mouth, the formality of someone who used language as a class marker and enjoyed the distinction. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”