Chương 2
Vincent glanced at Sophie.
“Is your mother dead?”
Sophie swallowed. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She shook her head once.
“She was breathing.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know.”
Marco spread his hands.
“You’re taking directions from a terrified kid.”
Vincent looked at him.
“I’m asking questions.”
“You’re humiliating me in front of half the city.”
A waiter near the bar lowered his eyes. One of the alderman’s aides at the center table pretended to study the candle flame.
Vincent stepped closer to Marco.
The girl came with him, still holding his coat.
“If humiliation is your problem tonight,” Vincent said, “you’re doing better than she is.”
Marco’s jaw worked.
Tony returned through the oak doors.
“Car’s ready.”
Vincent took off his suit jacket. Sophie released it reluctantly. He placed it around her shoulders, covering most of the blood.
“Tony, bring her.”
Sophie backed away from him.
“No.”
Vincent paused.
Her eyes moved from Tony to the guards, then returned to Vincent.
“You come.”
“Sophie—”
“You come.”
Marco breathed out through his nose.
Vincent looked at the girl’s bare feet. One heel was cut. A strand of hair had stuck to the blood drying along her cheek. She had crossed half the city because her mother had told her a name associated with whispered threats, closed businesses, and men who disappeared from neighborhood sidewalks.
She had come because all the safer doors had apparently failed.
Vincent buttoned his black shirt at the wrist.
“All right.”
Tony’s eyebrows rose.
Vincent ignored him. He pointed to Paulie.
“Marco stays here.”
Marco stood again.
“Vince.”
“Sit.”
“I’ve earned more than this.”
Vincent leaned toward him.
“So has she.”
Marco looked past him at Sophie.
The girl recoiled.
That was enough.
Vincent turned away.
The Golden Palm’s entrance remained blocked by two guards. Guests watched him cross the dining room with Sophie at his side and Tony behind them. No one spoke. The child’s bloody handprint remained on the tablecloth, startlingly small beneath the chandelier light.
At the doors, Vincent heard Marco call his name.
Not boss.
Not Mr. Torino.
Just Vincent, in the tone men used when they remembered they had once been young together and believed memory created immunity.
Vincent did not turn around.
The night air struck cold after the warmth of the restaurant. Sophie stopped on the sidewalk, disoriented by headlights and traffic. City light shone in the tall windows behind them, turning the dining room into a gold box full of motionless people.
Tony opened the rear door of the sedan.
Sophie looked inside, then up at Vincent.
“Is he going to follow?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
Vincent glanced at Tony.
“I left people with him.”
She considered that, unconvinced.
Vincent got into the rear seat first.
Sophie climbed in beside him.
Tony closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side.
The car smelled of leather, coffee, and the peppermint candies Tony kept in the console because he had quit smoking nine years ago and still needed something to do with his mouth. Sophie sat stiffly against the door, Vincent’s jacket wrapped around her. Blood had soaked through in several places.
Tony pulled away from the curb.
“Address?” he asked.
Sophie repeated it.
Tony entered it into the navigation screen, though he knew the street.
Vincent watched the Golden Palm disappear behind them.
“Call Paulie,” he said.
Tony made the call through the car system.
Paulie answered on the second ring.
“Everything’s calm.”
“Marco?”
“Seated.”
“Search him.”
A pause.
“He’s not going to like that.”
“Then search him slowly.”
Tony glanced at Vincent in the mirror.
Paulie said, “Understood.”
“Take every phone in the room. Put Marco’s in a separate bag. Don’t turn it off.”
“What about the civilians?”
“Tell them there was a threat. Tell them they’ll leave when we know the building is secure.”
“That could take a while.”
“It will.”
Vincent ended the call.
Sophie was staring at his gold watch.
He turned his wrist over, hiding the face.
“What happened at your apartment?”
She shook her head.
“You have to tell me.”
“I told you.”
“You told me Marco was hurting your mother.”
“He was.”
“What did you see?”
Sophie’s lips trembled. She pressed them together.
Tony’s eyes met Vincent’s in the mirror again.
Vincent lowered his voice.
“Did Marco have a gun?”
She nodded.
“Did he fire it?”
“No.”
“Was anyone with him?”
Another nod.
“How many?”
“One. Maybe two. I heard someone in the hall.”
“Did your mother know them?”
“She knew him.”
“Marco?”
“She called him Mr. Vale.”
Tony took a corner too quickly. Sophie slid across the seat and caught herself against Vincent’s arm.
“Easy,” Vincent said.
“Sorry,” Tony muttered.
Sophie pulled away at once, embarrassed by the contact.
Vincent had not been this close to a frightened child in years. Adults adjusted themselves around him. They hid fear behind jokes, money, or disrespect. Children did not know those methods. Sophie’s terror sat openly in the car, filling the silence with shallow breaths.
“What did your mother do for work?” he asked.
“She did numbers.”
“Where?”
“Torino Freight.”
Tony’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Vincent looked at him.
Tony did not look back.
“What kind of numbers?” Vincent asked.
“Bills. Trucks. She said people lie with numbers because they think numbers don’t get mad.”
The sentence did not sound like a child’s invention.
“What’s your mother’s first name?”
“Elena.”
Vincent knew the name. Elena Martinez worked in accounts payable at the Archer Avenue office. Thirty-four years old. Hired eleven months ago after the previous clerk retired. Quiet. Reliable. No disciplinary problems. He had seen her twice, perhaps three times, always carrying folders against her chest.
He had never known she had a daughter.
“Did your mother tell you why Marco was there?”
“She told me to go in the bathroom.”
“Did you?”
“For a little.”
“What did you hear?”
Sophie stared out the window.
May you like
The city passed in reflections across her face.
“He said she copied something.”
