I decided.
Stay alive, stronzo, asshole. Stay alive long enough for me to figure out what you are.
And what am I going to do about it?
I siton the kitchen island.
I look at the bodies. I have one minute before I have to call Matteo.
I use the minute.
I open my private intel feed. I run a query against a list I have not looked at in four years. A list I made at twenty-five, for a woman in Geneva. A list of people who were alive and should not be.
Three names.
The query takes thirty seconds.
Sean Donovan's name comes back.
It is on the list.
He has been on the list. This whole time.
The man whose mouth was on me an hour ago. He has been on my list for years. Because I sealed the file. The file is sealed for a reason. The reason is that looking at the list makes me want to know things I decided not to know.
Madonna mia.
I run a second query. Call logs of dying women in the New York metro area. Medical billing flags. A private hospice database I should not have access to.
If he was hidden at birth, someone hid him.
If someone hid him, someone knows.
One result.
Margaret Voss. Age 81. St. Catherine's Hospital, Astoria. Maternity ward, 1988.
A nurse who has just placed a call.
Gesù, Jesus.
To a man whose name was never supposed to come out of her mouth.
To Sean Donovan.
My phone rings.
INCOMING CALL. M. MORETTI.
I press accept.
"Nadia." Matteo's voice is already running the math.
"Matteo."
"Where are you?"
"Catskills. Off the Moretti grid. I will give you the address."
