I know, I think.I’m working on it.
***
Clemente holds the meeting in his study, a room I’ve been in a dozen times now. High ceilings and the sound of the ocean through the rear window. Expensive furniture arranged with the deliberateness of a man who understands that the spaces you occupy say something about who you are.
Clemente is behind the desk.
Diego is across from me, wearing a different Hawaiian shirt this time, black pants, and that same piece of gum working steadily in his jaw.
Marco Reyes—attentive, professional, present.
Ryan—cataloging everything.
My watch has been recording since the meeting began. It’s standard Bureau issue is indistinguishable from any other expensive timepiece, which is entirely the point. Everything said in this room is going somewhere Sam’s team will eventually be able to use.
Everything, I remind myself. Every word matters.
Clemente talks.
He always talks, the expansive confidence of a man who has never once been in a room where his words weren’t the most important ones. He talks about the New York arrangements,the distribution gaps, what he needs from Marco Reyes in the coming months—routes, contacts, and the logistics of moving product through a city that consumes it faster than most operations can keep up.
And then Clemente’s tone shifts, barely, just slightly, the shift of a man moving from one agenda item to the next, and he says it the way he says everything, casually and conversationally, like it is simply another logistics problem to be solved.
“Security has become more of a concern,” he says. “Since we lost the girl.”
I reach for my water glass.
“Lawrence has been difficult,” Clemente continues. “He has particular tastes. The girl we sourced for him was exceptional, apparently. He hasn’t been able to find a replacement who satisfies him.” A pause. Almost amused. “Particular men are particular problems.”
The girl.
I know which girl. I know her name, face, and the strength of the woman who had gone back to college after everything that had happened to her, qualified as a nurse, and married the man who had pulled her out of that darkness. The man sitting in New York right now is waiting for his moment to come for the people in this room.
My hand tightens around the glass.
I take one slow, controlled breath.
The muscle in my jaw holds for exactly one second before I release it.
Marco Reyes—attentive, professional, unaffected.
Ryan—murderous.
Diego notices.
I catch it in my peripheral vision, that quick gaze cutting across to me, reading something in my face, assessing it, and abeat of silence. Then he leans back in his chair with the loose energy of a man who has decided something is funny.
“Marco.” That grin. “You want one for yourself, just say the word.”
He laughs.
Clemente smiles.
I lift my glass and let the corner of my mouth move in the way Marco Reyes would move it, easy and appreciative, with the mild amusement of a man who understands the joke and has no feelings about it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The moment passes.
Nobody in that room knows what those five words cost me.
