“Raffaele D’Amico runs the firm. Vincenzo’s whole operation. He’s been doing it for fifteen years. He doesn’t promise you anything because he doesn’t have to. Hedelivers,and the delivery is the contract. When shit goes down—and it will go down soon”—God, I hope that’s true—“do you want to be on that side or on Victor’s? This is the door, right here, right now, and it closes the second that sniveling bastard gets back.”
The guard looks at his phone. At me. At the door. I can see the gears turning.Please,I silently beg.We both know I’m right.
God, I hope I’m right.
“If this blows up,” he finally mutters.
I straighten. “It won’t.”
“If it does, I’m the one who comes back in here for you.”
I nod as fast I can. “Fair. That’s fair.”
He hesitates a second longer. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a different phone. Not the one he’s been scrolling on.
“What’s the number?”
I tell him.
He types it in as he crosses to my chair and crouches down. He works the rope at my left wrist with his thumb until there’s enough slack for me to bring the hand around to the front, and he sets the phone in my palm and steps back.
“One message. Then it goes back to me.”
“Okay.”
My hand is shaking. My thumb skids twice on the keyboard before it lands a letter. I look around the room while I type. Quickly. There’s a stack of mail on the side table next to Victor’s chair—a long envelope on top, the address bar facing up. I read it once, fast, and lock it in my head.
I type.
Victor has me. 86 Buckhorn Drive, Alpine, NJ 07620. Victor is behind everything. The warehouse. The traitors. Vincenzo. All of it. Please.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
The message goes through.
A tinyDeliveredunder the bubble.
I watch the bubble. I watch the bubble like it owes me something.
A second later:Read.
The room seems to pop. Like the entire world was holding a dark breath and just sighed in relief.
He’s alive.
Then a second thought intrudes on the hope:Or someone has his phone.
No. Happy thoughts only. He’ll respond any second now. Confirm it all.
I wait for a reply. Now I’m the only holding my breath.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
A minute.
The bubble just sits there.Readand nothing else.
