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No, it’s not. Careful implies I can step around violence. I can’t. I can only meet it first, before it reaches the people under my protection.

“I’ll be home soon,” I assure her.

“Okay.”

“Don’t wait up if you’re tired.”

She huffs a small laugh. “You got me figured out.”

The call ends, and the warmth of her voice disappears from the room.

I switch to Roman before the phone can ring a third time. “I’m here.”

“Isabella Moretti.”

The name means nothing to me. I move to the desk and pick up the report Roman sent earlier, scanning the pages covered in shell companies, wire transfers, and names buried behind names. Then I pick up the photo of the older woman with the dark hair streaked with silver sitting next to Enzo.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“That’s the question.”

“You called me with a name but no answer?”

“I called you with the first clean name tied to the money that moved through Enzo’s people before the attack at the shelter.”

I go completely still. “Connected to Enzo?”

“Yes. Not directly enough to prove beyond doubt, but enough for me.”

“What do we know?”

“Old money. New York. Private holdings. A few charitable boards. No criminal record. No public connection to the Italians beyond business routed through people who were never supposed to be found.”

“Family?”

“Still digging.”

“I need more.”

Roman breathes out through his nose. “This woman is buried deep, brat. Whoever she is, she has money, patience, and help.”

The three things I hate most in an enemy.

On the desk, Maggie’s name appears in one of Luka’s security reports, printed beside notes about altered routes, guard rotations, shelter cameras, and new locks. My house. Her shelter. Ivy’s dance studio. The diner. Every place that should feel ordinary has become part of a war map.

“Does she connect to Clara?” I ask.

The silence tells me everything I need to know. Then, “Not yet.”

“Not yet is not no,” I say.

“No,” Roman agrees. “It’s not.”

I close my eyes. Clara’s face comes to me the way it always does when I’m not prepared. Blood on her dress. A wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. There are nights I still hear the gunfire. And still hear the silence afterward.

I open my eyes. I don’t have the luxury of dwelling on the past. “We need to find the connection.”

“We will,” he insists. “No one stays hidden forever.”