Chương 12
“My brother has a gun against his head.”
“And if you collapse?”
“Then give me something useful.”
Hall stared at her, then opened the medical bag with irritated force. She wrapped Sofia’s ribs more securely, gave her a limited dose of pain medication, and made her promise to report dizziness or shortness of breath.
Sofia changed into black trousers, flat shoes, and a loose sweater brought by one of the guards. She washed off the remains of her bridal makeup in the bathroom.
When she returned, Matteo hardly recognized her.
Not because she looked different.
Because she looked like herself.
Her hair remained loose. The diamonds stayed on the table. She carried the memory card in a small plastic case inside her pocket.
Matteo gave her a lightweight protective vest.
She looked at it. “Will it stop my father?”
“It will stop a bullet.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“No,” Matteo said. “It won’t stop him.”
She put it on.
They left the penthouse at five twenty-three.
The brass key card remained on the marble console.
In the elevator, Sofia stood beside Matteo without touching him. The mirrored walls multiplied their reflections: a man in a black suit, a woman in borrowed clothes, both wearing wedding rings that no longer meant what they had meant twelve hours earlier.
“Are you afraid?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
He adjusted one cuff. “I’m not required to enjoy admitting it.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“That your plan works.”
She frowned.
“If it works, you’ll keep doing dangerous things.”
A small smile appeared. “That sounds difficult for you.”
“It already is.”
The elevator doors opened.
Saint Michael’s Social Club occupied the ground floor of a narrow brick building beneath the elevated train. Its front windows were covered by cream-colored curtains. The bakery next door had closed early, though warm sugar still scented the sidewalk.
Marco’s men searched Matteo at the entrance.
They took his gun, phone, knife, and watch. One found the thin wire beneath his shirt and tore it away.
Marco had expected surveillance.
Sofia’s recorder remained hidden inside the medical wrap around her ribs, where touching her would require exposing the injuries Marco wanted concealed. Matteo hated using that fact. Sofia had insisted.
Two guards led them downstairs.
The third stair from the bottom creaked.
Sofia’s eyes met Matteo’s.
The service passage still existed.
The basement room had no windows. Dark wood paneled the walls. A long table stood beneath a painting of Saint Michael driving a spear into a serpent. Nico sat tied to a chair near the back, blood dried across his mouth.
Marco stood beside him.
Enzo was there too.
Matteo had expected betrayal. Seeing his uncle still produced a physical jolt.
Enzo looked tired, almost annoyed, as though the day had become needlessly complicated.
“Take off the vest,” Marco told Sofia.
“No.”
His gaze sharpened.
Matteo stepped slightly in front of her.
Marco smiled. “Already protective. Marriage improves some men.”
“Let Nico go.”
“The card first.”
Sofia took the plastic case from her pocket.
Nico shook his head.
Marco struck him across the face.
Sofia flinched but did not step forward.
“Give it to me,” Marco said.
“This is a copy.”
“Where is the original?”
“There isn’t one.”
He smiled. “You were never good at lying.”
“I didn’t have to be. You never listened.”
Marco moved toward her.
Matteo blocked him.
Two guns rose from the edges of the room.
Enzo spoke with weary impatience. “Matteo, kneel.”
Matteo looked at his uncle.
“Do not make this childish,” Enzo said. “Marco takes the card. Sofia returns home. We repair the story before morning.”
“What happens to me?”
“You resign control of the terminals.”
“And if I don’t?”
Enzo’s eyes moved toward Nico.
Matteo lowered himself onto one knee.
Pain from an old scar flared beneath his trousers, a thin memory of gravel and blood.
Marco’s expression brightened.
Sofia looked at Matteo, startled.
He kept his gaze on her.
Not on Marco.
Not on Enzo.
Her breathing steadied.
“Both knees,” Marco said.
Matteo obeyed.
A train passed overhead. The walls trembled. Glasses on the long table gave a faint, uneven rattle.
Behind the bakery wall, Rizzo’s team would hear it too.
Sofia took one step forward.
Marco held out his hand.
She placed the plastic case in his palm.
He opened it.
The case was empty.
Marco looked up.
Sofia said, “I needed your fingerprints on it.”
His hand closed.
“For what?”
“For the police report.”
He slapped her.
The sound cracked through the room.
Matteo rose.
A gun pressed against the back of his neck.
Sofia staggered but did not fall. Blood appeared at the corner of her mouth.
Marco stared at his own daughter as if she were an object that had malfunctioned.
“You think police frighten me?”
“No.”
Her voice shook. She wiped the blood with her thumb.
“But witnesses do.”
The service door burst inward.
Rizzo entered with three armed men. At the same moment, one of Marco’s guards turned his weapon away from Matteo and aimed at Enzo.
The man was a Barone soldier, recalled by his family after seeing the ledgers.
Power shifted too quickly for anyone to trust it.
Everyone began shouting.
Nico threw his chair sideways, knocking Marco into the table. Matteo struck the gunman behind him with an elbow and tore the weapon free. Rizzo fired once into the ceiling, a deafening report that stopped some men and panicked others.
Enzo ran toward the stairs.
One of Matteo’s guards caught him at the door.
Marco grabbed Sofia by the hair and pulled her against him. A pistol appeared beneath her chin.
The room became still.
Sofia did not struggle.
Matteo pointed his stolen gun at Marco.
“Let her go.”
“You ruined everything,” Marco said to Sofia.
His voice had changed. The polished restraint was gone. What remained sounded smaller.
“You were supposed to stand there.”
May you like
Sofia’s face twisted with pain where he held her hair.
“I did,” she said. “For twenty-six years.”
