"How many?"
"Eight."
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
The lie sits in my mouth. Matteo hears it anyway. He hears everything I do not say.
He does not push. He pushes differently.
"My team will be there in twenty-eight minutes. Do not move. Do not call anyone else. Are we clear?"
"We are clear."
"And Nadia."
"Yes."
"You and I are going to have a conversation when you are back in the city. About the man on the warehouse feed."
"I know."
He hangs up.
I sit on the kitchen island.
I look at the empty doorframe where Sean was standing.
His name is on my list.
Cazzo, fuck.
6
SEAN
It is 7:14 a.m. on Friday when I get back to Astoria.
I have bled through the dressing she put on me. A long walk and a longer ride ago.
I climb three flights. Each step is a small negotiation. Left side, below the ribs. Through-and-through, sutured front and back.
The apartment is exactly the way I left it. Service weapon on the counter where I do not keep my service weapon. Coffee mug in the sink. Tuesday's newspaper.
I lean against the door.
A long way is a long time to think. I have spent all of it deciding whether I would walk in as a cop or as something else.
Both.
I peel the dressing back.
The stitches are clean. Tight. Angry but not failing. She did this in a Catskills kitchen in the middle of the night while pretending not to look at my face.
