I watch as he walks toward the back exit, dialing. He doesn’t look at the bodies on his way. He’s already moved on to the next operation. How did I ever question him?
Fucking stupid. Almost as stupid as Nico.
I watch Lorenzo’s back until he disappears through the door.
The smoke is settling in the room. Sirens, somewhere outside, very far away—police, eventually. But I have time. The casino is a place people are paid to forget about.
With the fire settling in my veins, I take one last look at Vincenzo. The hollowness in my chest has deepened. There’s no point in trying to cover it up.
“Sorry it had to happen like this, old man…”
My chin dips slightly. I take a moment of silence.
Then I’m gone.
25
BEA
The new guard at the door hasn’t moved in four hours.
I tried to make conversation with him earlier—asked his name, asked if he wanted water, asked about the weather—and got, in order:Tomas, ma’am;no thank you, ma’am; and the same middle-distance look the other guard gave me yesterday. I gave up after the third try.
It’s now six in the evening, and I’m about to lose my mind.
This is a kind of solitude I’ve never lived in before. The apartment makes no sound of its own. The HVAC is too good, the windows are too thick, the floors too solid. I can’t hear the city. I can’t hear my neighbors. There are no neighborstohear. And I’ve been pacing the same loop since yesterday.
This is my life now.
I’m becoming a very specific kind of crazy.
So. Fine. If I’m going to be a hostage in a four-thousand-square-foot apartment, I’m going to learn a few things about my host.
I start in the living room and find nothing. Art I don’t understand. Furniture nobody’s sat on. A coffee-table book about Italian architecture that clearly has never been opened.The kitchen is the same way, unused. The pantry has one good olive oil, one bag of coffee, and a sleeve of crackers.
The study, however, is more interesting.
The desk drawer is unlocked. He hasn’t bothered. I imagine nobody has ever come into his study uninvited. Top drawer: legal pads, a Mont Blanc pen, three cigars, and a pile of contracts in folders sorted by year.
Second drawer: a gun.
My pulse skips a beat.
Of course, there’s a gun. I close the drawer.
Third drawer: another gun.Right.
I close that one too.
How many guns does one person need?
There’s a cabinet by the window. I open it.
More guns. A knife in a leather sheath that looks like it predates electricity. A small box of ammunition. And under all of it, sitting flat on the cabinet floor, a yellow legal-pad page folded once.
I unfold it.
A handwritten list of names. None I recognize. Maybe twelve of them. A date is written next to each one in his small, even handwriting. Some of the dates are in the future. Some are last year.
