Ex-military.Holds himself like it even now, even broken on my kitchen tiles, even with the specific understanding of what almost happened to him still visible in his eyes. Not Virelli — their men have old-world polish and family tattoos. Not Moretti. Outside contractor. Same as the hospital hit squad. Same clean, anonymous professionalism. Same money behind it.
"Who sent you?"
Silence.
I reset his shoulder.
He bites down on the sound. Barely. Professionals always try to.
"Who sent you?"
Jaw locked. Eyes forward. The thousand-yard stare of a man deciding what his pain threshold actually is.
"Here's what I already know." I keep my voice low. Almost pleasant. People always find the pleasant worse — it means the person talking to them has nothing to prove, which means they've already decided how this ends. "You cut the grid. Jammed comms. Came through the front — which means you wanted noise, which means this wasn't a kill job. It was a grab." I tilt my head. "The woman or the drive?"
The muscle in his jaw twitches.
Just once.
"Both," I say. "Right."
I stand. Signal Caruso — hold him, full protocol — and turn toward the door.
Behind me: the wet, measured sound of a man making a decision.
I turn back.
Something has shifted in his eyes. The locked-down professional is still there, but a calculation has been completed behind it. He looks at me for one second. Then past me.
At Serafina.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs with a first-aid kit in her hands, watching.
His voice comes out wrecked and deliberate — the voice of a man spending his last leverage in one place.
"Your father paid for this."
The room goes silent.
He isn't looking at me when he says it.
He's looking at her.
9
SERAFINA
"Your father paid for this."
The words follow me up the stairs, down the hall, into the study. I arrive ten minutes before Luca. I spend those ten minutes at the window — arms crossed, jaw locked, watching the street like it personally wronged me.
It didn't. But someone did.
The door opens.
"Talk." I don't turn around.
"Serafina—"
