Page 78 of Knight
Not because I have developed some sixth sense for catastrophe. Because catastrophe has a rhythm in this family — a frequency, a cadence, the way bad news arrives in the grey hoursbefore sunrise when the city is still deciding whether to wake up or keep pretending.
"Marchetti." Fabio says the name the way a coroner reads a tag. Flat. Final. "Found him twenty minutes ago. Loading bay behind the Tenth Street warehouse."
I close my eyes. Luca Marchetti. Thirty-one. Ran distribution logistics on the western corridor. Showed up to every meeting with two pens clipped to his jacket pocket because he liked to take notes. His wife's name is — was — the kind of detail I should not know but do, because Giovanni taught his sons that knowing the names of every man's family was not compassion. It was leverage.
"How?" I ask, though I already know the answer will be precise.
"Blade. Single cut across the throat. Clean enough for surgery — no hesitation marks, no defensive wounds. He was dead before his knees hit the concrete." Fabio pauses. The pause is worse than the words. "They left something in his hand."
"Tell me."
"A chip. White marble. About the size of a thumbnail."
My blood cools by several degrees. I can feel the temperature shift behind my eyes — the same biological response I felt the morning I found the black envelope on my kitchen counter. My body downshifting from human to something older. Something colder. The reptile brain taking the wheel because the human one cannot process this fast enough.
White marble. The same material as the cracked Knight that started all of this. Isadora is not just killing. She is annotating. Leaving pieces on the board to prove she is playing a game the rest of us are still learning the rules of.
Luca Marchetti was not a high-value target. He was mid-level — reliable, loyal, the kind of man who kept the machinery running without ever touching the levers. He had no operationalintelligence worth extracting. No secrets worth the risk of breaching a secured corridor to reach him.
Which means she did not kill him for what he knew.
She killed him to show me she could choose. That the target was hers to select. That the timing was hers to dictate. That the method — a blade, not a bullet, intimate enough to require proximity, professional enough to leave no forensic trail — was a signature she wanted me to read.
I am inside your perimeter. I choose when and where the next one falls.
"Security footage?" I already know the answer.
"Nothing. The cameras logged standard activity. No unauthorized access. No motion anomalies. Same ghost protocol as Garfield."
Same breach. Same invisible hand. The Mole feeding her the corridors, the gaps, the blind spots Fabio has spent years building walls around. She walks through his architecture like it was designed to guide her rather than stop her.
Fabio's breathing is heavier than usual. I can hear the humiliation grinding against his professionalism — the head of security reporting another failure, another body, another proof that his systems are leaking from a wound he cannot find or close.
"I want the full forensic report by noon." My voice comes out level. Controlled. The commanding register I heard through walls when Giovanni made calls from his study — clipped, precise, the voice of a man assigning tasks because assigning tasks is easier than acknowledging that a man who clipped two pens to his jacket every morning is lying in a loading bay with his throat opened to the air.
I hang up. Set the phone facedown on the desk.
The Patek Philippe ticks against my wrist. Steady. Patient. Giovanni's rhythm — the metronome he left me along with hisempire and his enemies and the particular gift of being able to hear a man's death reported at five-forty in the morning and immediately begin calculating the tactical response instead of grieving the loss.
Luca Marchetti had a wife. A daughter. He took notes with two pens because he said one always ran out at the worst moment and he never wanted to miss something important.
I file this. Not in the place where grief lives — I cannot afford that place right now. In the place where cost lives. Where the ledger runs. Where the column marked acceptable is still blank because I have not yet decided what belongs in it.
But my hands are already reaching for the phone again. Already dialing. Already building the response.
And the voice in my head assembling the strategy sounds exactly like my father's.
The Giovanni Slide
By nine o'clock I have assembled the only men on this earth I trust to sit in a room and build a war.
Fabio stands at the head of the table in the estate's west wing, the same room where Giovanni held court for thirty years. The same walnut table imported from Palermo, scarred from decades of fists and glasses and decisions that ended lives before the men making them finished their coffee. Fabio has spread his reports across the surface — photographs, perimeter maps, theforensic preliminary on Marchetti's body — and his hands are flat against the wood the way they always are when he is furious and trying to contain it inside something professional.
Santino is seated to my right. Black shirt. Arms folded. His scar catches the overhead light and I think of the collar that used to sit above it — the collar he stripped away the night he decided that being a priest was just another way of hiding from what he was born to be. He has not spoken since he arrived. He does not need to. His silence has its own architecture — load-bearing, deliberate, the kind that holds up ceilings while other men talk beneath them.
Dante is in the corner.
Always the corner. Back against the wall, arms loose at his sides, dark eyes tracking everything. He chose his position before the rest of us entered — the angle that gives him sightlines to the door, the window, and every face at the table simultaneously. Nineteen years old and he reads a room the way a surgeon reads a scan. Looking for the mass. Looking for the thing that will kill you if no one catches it in time.
