She steps back, just out of reach.
“You wanted a chase,” she says. “You’re getting one.”
Then she turns and walks out.
The driver follows.
The door closes behind them.
I stay where I am for a second longer than necessary.
Then—
Fuck.
Victor saw enough.
It wouldn’t be difficult for him to put the pieces together.
The timing. The interruption. The fact that I followed.
That’s all it takes.
What the hell, let him guess.
Even I’m not sure how this ends anymore.
I pull out my phone. Dial without looking.
“Black sedan. Just left the restaurant. Moreno’s driver, woman in the back. Follow it. Stay out of sight. Let me know where she ends up.”
The line clicks dead.
I pocket the phone and turn back toward the event.
The restaurant is still full. Conti associates. Allied families. Politicians with their hands out. Victor Moreno is back at his father’s table, saying something that makes the old man laugh.
Hours left. Hands to shake. Assholes to tolerate.
I straighten my jacket and walk back into the room.
Somewhere across the city, Bea Mendez is riding in my enemy’s car, thinking she’s won something tonight.
Maybe she has.
I need to rethink this whole fucking thing.
5
BEA
A week in. I’ve learned his rhythms.
Coffee at nine, black, no sugar. Silence until ten—he reads briefs and doesn’t like interruptions. Lunch is skipped more often than not, replaced by phone calls that he takes standing at the window, gazing over the city like he owns it. He works until eight in the evening, sometimes later. The only variation is the occasional visitor—always announced, always brief.
I’ve learned other things too.
The way his jaw tightens when he’s irritated. The particular stillness that settles over him before he says something cutting. The slight shift in his posture when someone has disappointed him—a straightening of the spine, a coldness in the eyes that makes grown men drop their gazes to their shoes.
