Page 119 of The Cost of Silence

“It’s me,” Adi calls.

“Come in.”

He opens the door just enough to step through, closing it behind him with that quiet care he always has, like he’s afraid noise might disturb his peace.

He looks more tired than last night. Shirt sleeves rolled, tie gone, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

“Rossi said you’re working,” he says, nodding at the notebook.

“Always,” I answer. “I’m drafting the ‘I survived a mob rat’ piece. Working title: ‘Cheese, Trauma, and You’.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Very funny.”

“I have my moments.”

He comes closer, hands in his pockets. “Nico asked me to check on you. And to see if you’re up to going over some things when he’s done with the footage.”

“Translation: are you stable enough to examine your own trauma for clues?” I say dryly.

“Something like that.”

“I’m good.” I pat the bed beside me. “Sit. Help me turn my near-death experiences into data.”

He hesitates only a second, then sits on the edge of the mattress, leaving a respectful amount of space.

I turn the notebook so he can see. “This is everything from today. Plus the overall pattern.” I tap the page. “They’re scaling. First shove, then attack, then fire, now psychological warfare in our own safe place. It’s chess. They’re trying to herd us.”

“Into what?” he asks.

“A mistake,” I say. “Nico rushing Orlov without proof. You cutting off a legit contract that looks dirty but isn’t. Matteo taking something personally at the clubs and getting himself in trouble. Me…” I shrug. “Running. Breaking. Taking myself off the board.”

Adi studies me. “Are you going to?”

“Run?” I ask. “No.”

“Break?”

“Maybe a little in the shower,” I admit. “But not in a way that helps them.”

“Good,” he says simply.

He reaches out then, surprising us both, and squeezes my hand once. It’s quick, awkward, but warm.

“You being here,” he says, “is… good. For him. For all of us, actually. Matty is calmer when you’re around. Letty adores you. Mom would have liked you.”

Emotion hits like a punch and I swallow hard around it. “I like being here,” I say. “Rat décor excluded.”

He huffs a soft laugh.

“And I know you’re all trying to protect me,” I add, “and I appreciate it. But I need you to understand I’m not just… cargo. I can help. Iwantto help. If they’re using my work and my name and my face as a weapon, I get a say in where it points next.”

“We know,” he says. “Nico knows. That’s why he keeps giving you pieces instead of locking you in a tower.”

“Rapunzel would have cut a bitch,” I say.

“Exactly.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both looking at the scribbles in my notebook.