Stronzo — asshole.
I turn. Walk to my car. Do not look back.
I start the engine.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat.
ALESSANDRO.
Three messages. Each has its own line. Alessandro does not write the same sentence twice.
MY OFFICE.
NOW.
STAVROS.
Cazzo. Cazzo. Cazzo.
He has noticed the probes. He has noticed the file I have been building for months.
I pull away from the curb.
The smell of Sean is still on my throat. The front of my jacket is dark where my hand was pressed to the place on his side that is bleeding through.
The consigliera does not have the answers Alessandro will want.
The woman from Geneva does.
I drive.
8
SEAN
It is just after 10 p.m. when I leave Queens.
I drive north. Triborough, Deegan. My side is bleeding through the dressing again. The brick wall did not mean to. The hand at my hip while I was inside her did not mean to. They opened it anyway.
I have one clean change in the glovebox. It is going to have to last.
She went pale when I saidGreek man. Not a flinch. The exact shade of pale a woman goes when she has been carrying something for a long time and decided, in advance, never to be the one who admits it.
She knows the Greek. She has not said his name. She is not going to.
I am going to find it out on my own.
St.Helena's sits on a side street off Riverdale Avenue. Three stories of red brick. Half-lit. The kind of building you notice only at night because of the small lit cross over the door.
The night nurse at the desk looks at me. At my coat over the dressing. At my face.
She does not ask.
"Margaret Voss."
"Room 311. End of the hall. She has been waiting."
"How long does she have?"
