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"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.