"It's interesting whether you want it to be or not."
"What did the men in the bar tell you?"
"Nothing I'm going to tell you."
"Are you investigating the Morettis?"
"I was." He holds my gaze. "I'm investigating something else now."
"What?"
A long second.
"A Greek man."
The Glock does not move. My grip tightens anyway. A quarter-inch of tension. Not enough for my Geneva training to hide from a man who has been watching me since the warehouse.
He sees it. He does not say anything about it.
Madonna mia — my God.
This is the danger of him. He listens with the part of himself that knows.
"What Greek man?"
"You know what Greek man, Nadia."
"I do not."
"You went pale when I said it."
"I did not."
"You did."
I put the Glock away. Slowly. Without taking my eyes off his face.
Never as a surrender. Always as a recalibration.
I step into him. Put my hand on his chest where the dressing is not. Push him into the wall.
He goes.
The brick is cold against the back of his coat. My hand is on his chest. His heart does a dangerous thing under my palm. He has not figured out how to keep his heart from doing it.
"This is a bad idea."
"Yes."
"Worse than the last one."
"Yes."
"You're holding a gun on me again."
"It's away."
"It's in reach."
