“Call the crew.”
“Already on it.” He’s pulling out his phone. “Van here in fifteen. Place stripped to the studs by sunrise. New paint, new tile, new everything. It’ll smell like a model home in the morning.”
“She’s not coming back here.”
“Even better. Then I won’t bother color-matching.”
I look at the body.
“Lorenzo.”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Antonio.”
Lorenzo stops scrolling. He looks up. The grin spreads slowly across his face—that trademark Lorenzo grin, where part of him is amused and part of him is twisting with a deep, dark energy.
“Antonio,” he repeats. Tasting it.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His expression sobers. “I gotta ask, boss. I gotta. Antonio Martinez is Conti’s biggest earner. Nico’s golden boy. You touch him and you’re not just touching a man; you’re touching a revenue stream the family has plans for. Vincenzo’s plans. Nico’s plans.”
“I know.”
“And you’re doing it over a woman.”
“Yes.”
He takes a long second with it. Then the grin returns.
“Alright then. War it is.” He pockets the phone. “Honestly, I was getting bored. The arraignments are putting me to sleep.”
“Get the crew.”
“On it.” He steps over the body to the kitchen and starts dialing.
I turn.
Bea is in the bedroom doorway.
She has a small bag in one hand. The strap is wound twice around her knuckles, tight enough that her fingers are pale. Her eyes aren’t on me. They’re on the body. Then the wall behind it. Then they finally slide to me.
She didn’t see this one. She heard it. She knew exactly what it was.
She doesn’t ask.
That’s the part that lands in me.
“I—uh, you…” She fumbles over her words.
I cross to her. Press my index finger against her lips. Take the bag out of her hand. I have to ease her fingers off the strap one at a time.
“Not a word. I’ll take care of everything. Come with me.”
