"Boss." Caruso's voice, muffled. A pause — the specific pause of a man doing rapid battlefield math. "Package arrived. Addressed to Dr. Virelli. You, uh—" Another pause. "You need to see it."
Luca's forehead drops to mine.
One breath. Two.
I become aware that I am pinned against the wall of a Moretti safehouse, my legs wrapped around the waist of a man who justmade me say his name. One of his guards is three feet away. And apparently, my life has taken a genuinely unexpected turn since a dead man pressed a drive into my pocket.
"One minute," Luca says. Nearly steady. Nearly.
We disentangle. I locate my sweatpants. Luca reassembles himself with the efficiency of a man who finds dishevelment personally offensive — which is unfair, because he still looks wrecked, shirt untucked, hair destroyed by my hands. The knowledge that I did that sits in my chest, warm and terrifying, with nowhere safe to put it.
He opens the door.
Caruso stands in the hallway holding a white gift box. His eyes go to Luca — perfectly composed face, slightly wrong collar. Then, to me, borrowed sweatpants, flushed to the hairline, one sock.
Then back to Luca.
Not one muscle moves.
"Warm in here," he says pleasantly. "Should I open a window?"
I want to walk directly into the Hudson River.
"Package," Luca says.
Caruso hands it over. No eye contact with me. The man deserves a raise, my eternal gratitude, and a legally binding agreement to never speak of this moment again.
I glance at Luca.
There it is — the corner of his mouth. Just barely. The ghost of something that, on any other face, would be a full smile, buton his is somehow worse because it’s rare and real, and it does something completely unreasonable to my chest.
I look away before it gets worse.
It's already worse.
Luca setsthe box on the desk. I stand beside him as he lifts the lid.
Neither of us speaks.
Inside, on a bed of white tissue paper, sits a hospital ID badge.
Bellevue Hospital. Emergency Medicine Department.
The photo is mine.
It's soaked through with blood.
10
LUCA
The badge goes into an evidence bag.
Serafina watches me seal it. Arms crossed. Chin up. Furious and frightened and showing neither. I've already learned the difference between her composure and her calm. This is composure. The calm version of Serafina doesn't cross her arms.
"It's a message," she says. "Not a threat. Not yet."
"It's both."
