When I get to his office, Marco is clipped during the supply visit in a way that has a distinct texture. Not irritated—Marco irritated is demonstrative, pointed, snarky, and arrives with a lecture and a look.
This is quieter than that. He sits there, glaring. “Just came for the drugs, eh? No time for social visits? Must be that girl of yours. Tight leash?”
“Tight body.”
He almost laughs. “Yeah. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen the pictures.”
His casual way of letting me know he’s been surveilling me. Not that I’m surprised. I’d do the same if I didn’t trust my doctor.
“Anything I can do for you, Marco?”
He stares for a minute. “No. I think you’ve done all you can for me.”
Marco’s patience with my situation has run out. I don’t need him to tell me this directly, but that was close enough. I’ve been reading this bastard for years.
We have to move. Now.
I tell Lena I need her and Opal out of the penthouse for the day—not why, just that I’m having some security upgrades done and I don’t want them underfoot. It’s not entirely a lie.
Lena looks at me for a moment with the eyes she uses when she suspects I’m not giving her the full version of something, and then she nods. “Sure. And at some point, you’ll trust me enough to tell me what’s going on, right?”
“It’s not a matter of trust?—”
“Uh-huh.” She books the science museum downtown and tells Opal, who responds with the volume of a child who has just been given news of transcendent personal importance.
They leave at nine. I stand at the window and watch the street until my car is out of sight, and then I begin.
I start on the exterior windows, which I check every three days as a standard practice—the original latch, the integrity of the frame, whether any of my monitoring strips have been disturbed. Everything on the north and east sides is undisturbed. On the south side, second window from the balcony door, I find it.
The latch lever has been taped down. Not obviously—not visible unless you’re looking for it—but very deliberately. A small strip of clear tape, positioned to hold the lever in the locked position, so the window appears closed on my security system while still being able to be opened from the outside with the right tool and a little pressure.
Someone was on the exterior of my building. Someone who knew exactly where my security sensors are and how to deceive them. Both of these details require expensive skills.
I stand at the window for a moment and breathe.
This window is on the fourteenth floor, and the adjacent structure doesn’t provide a viable approach, meaning either a rappel from the roof or a window-cleaning platform adapted for off-hours use. Either requires access, planning, and familiarity with the building’s layout and security architecture.
This was not opportunistic. This was someone who received intelligence on my setup and used it. That intelligence came from inside Marco’s organization. There’s no other source.
I take the tape off with tweezers, place it in a small evidence bag, because it’s a habit, and habits in this profession exist for reasons. Then I begin a full sweep—every window, every door, every entry point, every surface where a device could be placed that I would not have placed myself.
I work methodically and without hurry, because hurry introduces error, and error in this context is unacceptable. An hour and twenty minutes. I find nothing else. No listening devices, no secondary tampering, no indication that entry was actually made beyond the one taped latch. This was reconnaissance—someone building a map, testing the approach, confirming what works. Recon and access.
I reinforce the three windows that are most viable as entry points. Two more sensors that are not on any documented system are linked to an alert that goes to my phone rather than any central panel. New entry codes. New everything.
Then I sit at my desk and think.
Marco knows about the taped window, or authorized it, or looked the other way when someone with access to his organization’s intelligence arranged it. No one else makes sense. It has to be him.
I’ve seen him do this before.
The moment he decides one of his own is out, he doesn’t waste time fixing the situation. He moves on them like a beast in heat until it’s over. There’s no severance package in the mob.
Not unless you count having something important severed.
That evening I call Renzo.
My brother has been in a federal correctional facility for four years on a conviction that I still believe was half constructed—Renzo was not innocent, but the prosecution’s version of what he did bore a creative relationship to the actual events.
