Page 194 of Dante
"Obviously. The question is where and when he resurfaces."
I stop at the window. My reflection stares back—a man who looks healthier than he did a week ago. The wound barely pulls anymore. Marina's been feeding me like she's trying to fatten a pig for slaughter. "What about moving us to Chicago?"
"Not yet." Lorenzo's tone hardens. "If Alejandro's watching—and we have to assume he is—moving you exposes the route. Exposes Marina. Exposes everyone who helps transport you."
"So we stay trapped in this penthouse indefinitely."
"You stay alive indefinitely."
I press my palm against the cool glass. "I'm going insane in here, Lorenzo."
"You're recovering. And you're keeping her safe. That's the job right now."
The job. Like Marina is an assignment. Like I haven't spent every night this week learning the sounds she makes when she sleeps, the way she hums off-key while making coffee, the exact pressure she likes when I work the tension from her shoulders.
"How long?" I ask.
"Until we find him. Vittoria's running traces on his known associates. Nico's got people watching the border. Bruno's reaching out to contacts in Mexico." Lorenzo exhales. "We'll find him, Dante. We always do."
"And if he finds us first?"
"Then you do what you do best."
Kill. He means kill. The word hangs unspoken between us.
"Keep me updated," I say.
"Always. And Dante?" Lorenzo's voice softens slightly. "Take care of her. Sophia will never forgive me if something happens to Marina."
"Nothing will happen to her."
"I know." He hangs up.
I lower the phone and stare at the city below. Somewhere out there, Alejandro Mendoza is planning his next move. The man who murdered my family twenty-four years ago. The man who's been waiting?—
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I frown and open the message. A photo loads.
My blood turns to ice.
Two people stand outside a modest house. An older couple. The woman has Marina's eyes. The man has her stubborn jaw. They're getting into a car, completely unaware they're being photographed.
Marina's parents.
Another buzz. Another photo.
Vittoria. Walking through the Chicago compound gates. She's looking at her phone, distracted. Vulnerable.
Buzz.
Aria Sartori. Sitting at an outdoor café. She's sipping espresso, reading a book. Alone.
My hand shakes.
Buzz.
