Page 112 of The Cost of Silence

Of course they used the alarm. Smoke and chaos are their favorite trick.

“They wanted you out of the space,” I say. “Wanted time alone in here. We’ll need to sweep for bugs.” I aim the last at Rossi, who nods.

I can see regret in his expression. He feels responsible and so he fucking should. This should never have happened. But deep down, I know if someone is motivated enough, it’s hard to stop them. But I will. Because nobody is getting near her again.

I glance at Rossi. “We know anything yet?”

He shakes his head once. “Too clean. No prints, no fibers obvious to the eye. The guy never showed his face on camera,used the stairs, knew the blind spots. We’ll run the footage through enhancement, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

I exhale slowly, keeping the rage on a leash. “What about the alarm?” I ask.

“Pulled on twelve,” he says. “Right in the middle. No camera pointed directly at the pull station. Building manager’s genius decision back when they renovated.”

Of course it was. “Get him to fix it,” I say. “On every floor. I don’t care if he has to wallpaper this building with cameras. Nobody breathes in this place without us seeing it from three angles.”

Rossi’s mouth twitches. “Already making a list.”

“You know what, scrap that idea. Call Adi and tell him I want this building owned by ISM before the end of the week. I don’t care what it costs.”

“Yes, boss.”

He moves toward the table with gloves and an evidence bag. My arm tightens around Isabella’s waist. “You’re not watching this,” I tell her.

“I’ve been staring at it for an hour,” she mutters. “It’s ugly, but it’s a message. I’m not going to pass out because there’s a dead rodent on your overpriced glass.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Itisabout that. Rat. Snitch. Informant.” She looks up at me. “They’re calling me a rat, Nico. Or maybe you. Or both of us.”

She’s not wrong.

“Let me see the rest of the message,” I say.

Rossi nods, sliding something across the table, a small torn strip of newsprint held in tweezers. The words are mine before I even focus on them.

No, not mine.

Hers.

Some debts are never really paid. They’re just deferred, with interest.

I recognize it. Her pull line. The one half the city quoted at me for a week after that article dropped.

Isabella goes a shade paler. “Well,” she says faintly. “That’s…creative brand engagement.”

“They’re playing cute,” I say. “Debts. Interest. Rats. They think this is clever.”

“It’s all about money with Orlov,” she mutters. “It’s never justice or ideology or some bullshit code. It’s always about coins on a table. Your dad cut him off at the docks; now he’s calling in compounded revenge. Plus whatever side deal he’s made with ‘the uncle’.”

We’d told her about Orlov but now I’m wondering if she needs the entire truth. That our uncle might be behind it all. She doesn’t know it’s Domenico yet. We’ve kept that name buried until we have more than a thug’s word.

“Could also be a warning not to dig into those old financials,” she goes on, eyes sharpening. “You said Adi is tracing Orlov’s shell companies, right? Maybe we’re closer than we think.”

That’s the thing about having a journalist on your team. She sees patterns in words the way Matteo sees patterns in numbers. “You’re not wrong,” I say.

“Oh, talk dirty to me, baby,” she mutters with a laugh and a wink.

I wink at her flirty comment. “Later.”