“Obviously they built the stop. The question is whether they built it recently. Which means they know I’m looking. Or whether it’s been there for years and I’ve been walking into the same wall for months without realizing.”
I trail off because my fingers are doing that thing. The spasm that isn’t from caffeine. I switched to water an hour ago. My pulse was hammering and I couldn’t tell if it was the coffee or the fact that his chair is four inches closer than where it started.
“The only thread that’s actually moving is the gambling side.” I pull up the tab I’ve been running in the background. “The bookmaking operation I flagged. The debt settlements route through intermediaries. Not banks. People. Someone is brokering these payments in person.”
He freezes. Not his thinking stillness. Recognition.
“Magazine Street,” he says.
“What?”
“The bookmaker. Off Magazine. Marchetti. Runs a card game the Benedettis have used for years.” He’s looking at the screen now. Actually looking. “If your gambling money is routing through human intermediaries, that’s his operation.”
I stare at him. “You’ve known about this bookie and you didn’t think to mention it?”
“It’s a card game. Not a trafficking network.”
“Everything connects, Lorenzo. Everything.” I type the name. Marchetti. File it. “I’ll cross-reference his financials with the Benedetti side channel. If the money talks, I’ll hear it.”
“Hey.”
His hand is covering mine. Warm. Dry. His palm settling flat over my knuckles, pressing the tremor still. Holding me againstthe desk like this is normal. Like this is just what happens when my fingers betray me.
My heartbeat relocates to my throat.
“We’ll get her.” Low. Rough. Not a promise. The way he sayshandledwhen he comes back from meetings that involve men who stop smiling. A statement of intended outcome. Failure not on the list.
We. That word keeps getting bigger.
His thumb moves. One pass across my knuckle. Involuntary or deliberate, I can’t tell, and the not knowing is worse because my brain is running both scenarios at once and neither leads anywhere safely.
“If you’re going to hold my hand, you should at least buy me dinner first.”
He doesn’t pull away.
“Rosa’s pasta doesn’t count,” I add.
His mouth twitches. The ghost of a smile that never quite arrives. I’ve been cataloging these. Three in two weeks. Statistically significant.
“I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Don’t you dare. That woman controls the food supply. I’ve seen how she looks at people who disrespect the Sunday gravy.”
The twitch deepens. Almost. So close.
Then the warmth lifts. Back to his side of the desk. Back to the file he’s been pretending to read.
I stare at my knuckles. Still warm. The tremor is gone.
“The data will be there tomorrow,” he says.
“The data is therenow. I just can’t reach it.“
“Then stop.”
“I don’t stop.”
“I know.” He closes the file. “That’s the problem.”
