Page 128 of Ruthless Sin

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My legs barely hold me.

I cross to Marco. Take the package.

It’s light.

Too light.

The string is dark gray. The knot is clean. Square. Moscow courier.

“We got it this morning,” Marco says. “International. No return address. Hand-tied.”

I cut the string with my knife and unwrap the paper.

Something small falls into my palm.

Wood.

Dark wood worn smooth at the edges.

A cross.

Hand-carved.

Small.

I stop breathing.

I know this cross.

I held this cross three years ago in a concrete room in Moscow.

It was at Yelena’s throat when she died.

Resting in her blood.

I left it there.

It’s in my hand now.

There’s paper folded around it.

I unfold it.

Sharp handwriting. Economical. A killer’s hand.

I read it.

Hello, Martin Leclerc.

Or should I call you Nico Santoro?

A pleasure to finally know who you are.

Now it all makes sense.

That stupid bitch Yelena was selling us out to the Cosa Nostra? I knew it.

You took something of mine, Nico.

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