Page 28 of The Voicemail

“He was only supposed to watch her. See if she had what they were looking for. Find out who she talked to. That kind of thing. But then he got… weird.”

“Weird how?”

Dario glances at the photo again. “He started talking about her.”

My hand stills on the knife. Luca sees it. He doesn’t interrupt.

“What did he say?”

Dario hesitates. I let a slow smile spread. He starts talking faster.

“He said she was lonely. Said no one listened to her. Said she needed him, but she didn’t understand it yet.”

Something cold moves through me. “He fell for her?”

Dario nods. “Bianchi just wanted her scared. Wanted to lean on her in case she still had what she took. But Tomaso started adding his own shit. Notes. Calls. Watching her apartment. He liked it. I think he gets off on it.”

My jaw tightens.

Dario’s voice drops. “He said she was his.”

“Did he touch her?” I ask tightly.

Dario shakes his head. “No,” he says quickly. “No, I don’t think so. He wanted to. He talked about it, but Bianchi told him not to move until he had whatever was in that shipment.”

“He ignored that.”

“Yeah. Last night he said he was done waiting.”

The image hits fast and ugly. Elena behind that door. Knife in her hand. Tomaso with a gun. His shoulder driving into the frame. His hands on her if he’d made it inside.

My control slips. Only for a second, but a second is enough. I grab Dario by the throat and drive the chair back until it slams into the tile wall. He chokes, eyes bulging, hands useless in Luca’s grip.

Luca says my name once, low, but I ignore him.

“When Tomaso contacts you again, you’ll answer,” I tell Dario. “You’ll tell him you have news. You’ll tell him you know where she is. You’ll set up a meeting.”

Dario claws at my wrist.

I ease up enough for him to get a sip of air. “If you warn him, I’ll know. If you run, I’ll find you. If Elena receives one more flower, one more call, one more message, you’ll wish I’d killed you.”

Dario nods as much as my grip allows. “Okay,” he rasps. “Yeah, okay. I’ll do whatever you want.”

I let him go. He coughs hard enough to gag.

“Clean him up,” I tell him. “Then put a man on him. If Tomaso breathes in his direction, I want to know.”

Luca nods.

The alley behind the butcher shop is still wet from last night’s storm. Marco waits near the car, hands folded in front of him. He takes one look at my face and opens the door without a word.

Luca follows me out a moment later. “He’s scared enough to cooperate,” he says.

“Good.”

“Terrified men do stupid things,” he says.

“Then watch him closely.”