Page 120 of The Cost of Silence

“Question,” I say.

“Mm?”

“When you pulled me off the Ledger, when Patrick agreed to shelve me, did you expect it would look like this?”

Adi’s mouth tilts. “We expected you’d hate it.”

“I do,” I say. “But it also… opened space. For this.” I gesture between us, around us, to everything. “I’m not sure I would have let myself see who Nico really is if I were still chasing bylines and pretending I didn’t care.”

“Do you regret it?” he asks quietly.

“No,” I say, surprised at how fast the word comes. “Not the article. I regret how it happened, how I spun it so you were the bad guys, but I don’t regret the truth we pulled out of it. And not this.” I look at him. “Do you?”

He shakes his head once. “My brother is… different with you. Lighter. More focused, in a strange way. He’s always been good at carrying weight, but you make him put some of it down. We need that if we’re going to get through this without becoming the men our father was trying to keep us from. We would have also been in the dark about the threats coming at us. It happened all wrong, but at least we can fight what we can see.”

Warmth spreads under my ribs, soft and aching.

My throat tightens. I look down at my notes so I don’t do something ridiculous like cry. “Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “So. Step one: I refine this timeline. Step two: you and Nico cross-check it against contracts and old debts. Step three: you letme help interview whoever you’re pulling from the clubs, even if it’s behind a glass wall like a true crime documentary.”

Adi gives me a look. “We’ll see about step three.”

“Compromise,” I say. “Let me listen. You and Rossi do the scary questions. I can hear lies. It’s a journalist thing. And if you insist I stay here, then, for God’s sake, let me harass people on the phone at least.”

“We can do that,” he says. “Phone calls. No in-person meetings without us. As long as Nico agrees.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

The front door opens and closes, the sound faint through the walls, followed by the rumble of a familiar voice. Nico.

Adi stands. “He’ll want to see your notes.”

“He can have them,” I say. “After I get a kiss.”

Adi makes a face. “On that note, I’m going back to my contracts. They’re less disgusting.”

“Liar.”

He actually smiles as he heads for the door.

When he’s gone, I set the notebook aside and slide off the bed, suddenly hyper-aware that I’m in Nico’s t-shirt again. My hair is a mess. My heart is a war drum.

He appears in the doorway like I conjured him.

Eyes first, dark, sharp, scanning. Then shoulders tight but not as rigid as when he left. His tie is gone entirely now, his shirt open at the throat.

He looks at me, and some of the tension in his face eases.

“How bad?” I ask.

“We got a little more height and gait off the footage,” he says. “Rossi thinks he recognizes the way the guy moves. Might be one of Orlov’s younger runners. We’ll know more when we’ve cross-checked with what Matteo hears tonight.”

“So the board gets another pin,” I say.

“Yeah.”

He steps closer, hand lifting to tuck hair behind my ear. “You okay?” he asks.

It’s not a formality. It’s a real question.