Page 71 of The Devils in the Details

“Stay here. Do not come out. Do not make noise.” My voice came out flat. Even. The tone I used when the part of my brain that made jokes had temporarily shut down and the part that kept people alive was running the show.

I reached into my laptop bag and pulled my switchblade out. I clicked it open with a sound that was satisfying in a way that had nothing to do with the current circumstances and everything to do with the fact that good engineering was good engineering, crisis or no crisis.

I handed Nicky my bag. The strap was warm from my body, the weight familiar in a way that breathing was familiar. “Guard this with your life.”

Nicky looked at the bag. Looked at the switchblade in my hand. Looked at me with an expression that contained several questions he did not have time to ask.

“The switchblade is mine, the bag is yours.” I met his eyes. Held them. “Don’t mix those up.”

I pulled the door shut. The latch caught with a soft, final sound.

I went.

The corridor smelled like smoke and something sharper underneath — the particular tang of things that were not supposed to be burning, burning anyway. I moved fast. Bare feet on marble, switchblade in my right hand, the blade catching what little light made it through the haze.

I was looking for Ari in an actively exploding building.

Where was the enormous man? He should be easy to find. He was enormous. Six-foot-three of scarred dock worker with a denim vest and the gravitational pull of a small planet.

How hard could it be?

The answer, as it turned out, was moderately hard, because the D’Angelo estate was approximately the size of a small airport and currently resembled one that had made several poor decisions about its landing approach.

Something creaked overhead. I did not look up. Looking up was for people who had time to worry about ceilings, and I did not have time. I had a switchblade, bare feet, and a cardiovascular system that was doing overtime.

I rounded a corner and found Luca Sabatino standing in a patch of relatively clear air with his back to the wall and his expression doing something complicated.

The man looked like he was holding the outer edge of his composure by force of will. His beard was dusted with something pale — plaster, probably — and his eyes were the shade of focused that happened when the person you loved was somewhere in a building that was coming apart and you were calculating how many walls stood between you and them.

I did not waste time on greetings. Greetings were decorative. Information was functional.

“Nico and Nicky are in the closet off the east corridor. Third door. Solid oak. They are fine.” I delivered it fast and precise, the way I delivered everything when the part of my brain that made jokes had temporarily shut down. “East corridor, third door, solid oak, they are fine. Repeat it.”

Luca’s expression did something I did not have a category for. Something moved behind his eyes — relief, calculation, the specific warmth of a man who had just been handed coordinates for something he needed — and then he was gone.

Not running. Moving with the controlled speed of a man who had somewhere to be and had decided that getting there alive was more important than getting there quickly. His footsteps faded down the corridor, boots on marble, and I stood in the haze and thought: good. One problem solved.

I kept moving.

The second explosion hit while I was halfway down the next corridor. The windows rattled. The floor shook. Something in the ceiling made a sound that suggested it had reached a conclusion about its structural integrity and the conclusion was not favorable.

I rounded the corner at a pace that would have qualified as jogging if I’d been wearing shoes, which I was not, because apparently my professional risk assessment had included “pastries on terrace” but not “barefoot evacuation of exploding mafia estate,” and I was going to have a very pointed conversation with my past self about prioritization.

The hand came out of nowhere.

One second the corridor was empty, the next a hand shot out of a doorway to my left and hauled me inside with enough force to knock the air from my lungs in a single, decisive exhalation. My back hit the wall hard enough to register in my spine. A palm flattened over my mouth before I could make a sound.

My hand tightened on the switchblade. The grip was familiar — worn handle, something I had carried for longer than I cared to admit.

If this is Ari I am going to be furious about my heart rate.

It was not Ari.

Theo Romano crowded me against the plaster. Expensive cologne — something woody and overspent — and bright eyes that carried the quality of careful, patient attention that read as warmth until you were close enough to see what lived underneath.

A man who had decided chaos was an opportunity.

His breath was warm against my face. His palm pressed hard over my mouth, fingers digging into my cheek.