Page 218 of Ricardo

“That won’t be necessary.”

Again, no one acknowledges him.

“I’m not leaving with you.”

I step closer then, not enough to touch him, but enough that he has to lift his chin to keep my eyes.

“You are. Willingly or otherwise.”

His nostrils flare once. He gets into the car.

The sedan has no plates that can be traced back to us. Matteo sits in the front passenger seat. Edoardo drives. Lorenzo and I sit with Rusk in the back, not pressing against him, not crowding him, only sitting on either side of him while the car leaves through the service garage and enters the night without turning toward the hotel’s main drive.

Rusk looks out the window.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quieter.”

“This is unnecessary.”

Again, we answer with silence.

The city slides by, bright near the hotel and darker as we move west. Rusk says nothing while we pass restaurants, office towers, valet stands, then warehouses and service roads where the pavement worsens and the lights become practical rather than decorative.

Rusk starts getting jittery and words spill out of his mouth.

“Jerry Bradshaw’s assistant contacted me,” he says nervously. “He was unable to attend. The substitution was approved through the ordinary process. If your people failed to communicate internally, that’s hardly my responsibility.”

I look out the window.

Lorenzo says nothing.

Beside me, Rusk waits for an answer and receives only the low sound of tires over uneven pavement.

It is always interesting, the way men respond to silence. Some become even more disciplined. Some become angry. Most rush to fill it.

Rusk is the third kind.

He adjusts one cuff, then the other. “I attend civic events constantly. This was hardly unusual.”

The car takes a turn.

His shoulder shifts slightly with the motion, and his gaze cuts to Edoardo in the rearview mirror, then to Matteo’s still profile in the front seat.

“I have relationships across half the city,” he says. “If your concern is reputational, removing me like this creates the risk of exposure.”

Lorenzo’s mouth curves faintly. He still says nothing.

Rusk sees it.

That unsettles him more than anything else might have.

He clears his throat. “I understand the Conti family is protective of its events. Especially after recent tensions. But I think we can all agree there are better ways to handle a guest-list issue.”

I continue looking out the window, but I see sweat beading on his brow in the reflection.

His composure thins by the second.