Inside the safehouse.
Not pointed at the door. Not the hallway. Pointed at me. Wherever I sleep. Whatever I do when I think I'm alone.
Shit.
My hands are steady. Surgeon's hands, they always are.
The rest of me is not.
I get down from the chair. Walk to the door. Open it.
"Luca."
He's in the hallway — still awake, of course, he's still awake — and reads my face in the half-second it takes him to look at me.
"What.” Not a question.
I step back. Point at the smoke detector.
His gaze sweeps over it. The lens. The angle of coverage. The mount, just a shade too white.
The temperature in the room drops by several degrees. Not the air.
Him.
"Get your things." Very quietly. "You're not sleeping in here."
His eyes are still on the camera.
They look like a verdict.
16
LUCA
Ilook at the camera for exactly four seconds.
Then I turn to Serafina. "Go to my room. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me."
She reads my face. Doesn't argue.
That alone tells me how seriously she takes this.
The door clicks behind her.
I look at the camera again.
Someone installed this from inside the safehouse. Someone I vetted, someone I trusted with her location, her schedule, her life — looked at Serafina Virelli and decided she was worth more as a commodity than as a person under my protection.
The fury behind my ribs goes very quiet.
That's the dangerous part. Loud fury burns out. Quiet fury builds infrastructure.
I pull out my phone and call Caruso.
"Get everyone in the kitchen. Now. All of them."
There aresix men on the overnight shift.
