"I was just a waitress when I overheard a mafia boss's wife whispering to her lover that they had sabotaged her husband's brakes.

Dante read the message twice.

Then he closed the laptop.

"She hasn't replied yet," he said.

"She will."

"Yes." He stood.

"Which means she's either waiting for a better moment or she's trying to reach someone first.

Someone who can confirm whether I'm actually gone."

He picked up his phone and walked to the door.

"Stay here.

I'll be back."

He was gone for twenty minutes.

When he returned, his expression had changed.

Not darker, exactly.

More settled.

The way a face looks when a decision has been made.

"The mechanic who cut the brakes," he said, sitting down.

"We found him."

I waited.

"He's a freelancer.

Works out of a garage in Queens.

He's done work for Caruso before — small things, nothing like this.

He was paid in cash through an intermediary." He paused.

"The intermediary is a lawyer.

One I know."

"One of yours?"

"One I trusted." He said it without heat.

Which made it worse.

"He's been on Caruso's payroll for at least a year.

Possibly longer."

"How many people knew about Thursday nights?" I asked.

"It's not about the schedule anymore." He leaned forward.

"The lawyer had access to my personal calendar.

He drafted contracts that referenced my travel.

He knew my routes because I told him, directly, over the course of three years of working together." He stopped.

"I handed it to them."

"You trusted someone you had reason to trust," I said.

"That's not the same thing."

He looked at me.

"You're being generous."

"I'm being accurate."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then: "The lawyer's name is Ferris.

Gerald Ferris.

He's been with my family's legal interests since before I took over.

My father trusted him."

"Does Ferris know you're alive?"

"Not yet.

But Caruso will tell him the moment Vanessa makes contact.

And when Ferris knows—" He stopped.

"He'll run," I said.

"Or he'll try to finish what they started." He stood again.

"I need Vanessa to reply to that message before Caruso reaches out to Ferris directly.

If she replies first, I control the timeline.

If Caruso moves first, I lose the window."

"Can you make her reply faster?"

He thought about it.

"I can give her a reason to."

He picked up his personal phone — not the one he used for his men, the other one, the one that had been sitting untouched on the corner of the desk — and typed a short message.

He turned the screen so I could read it.

*Feeling better.

Dinner tonight?

I've missed you.*

He'd sent it to Vanessa.

I stared at the screen.

"You're asking her to dinner."

"I'm giving her a problem." He set the phone down.

"She now has to decide whether to come, which puts her in the same room as me when she believes she's supposed to be grieving.

Or she declines, which is suspicious after she drove here in tears this morning.

Or she panics and contacts Caruso immediately."

"And if she panics—"

"She'll use the email account." He opened the laptop again.

"And I'll be watching."

I sat back.

The logic was cold and precise and I understood every step of it.

I also understood that somewhere in this house, Vanessa Moretti was holding a phone and reading a message from a man she had tried to have kjlled less than twenty-four hours ago.

The laptop chimed.

We both looked.

Vanessa's mirrored account.

A new message sent — not received.

Sent, to Caruso.

*He's alive.

I don't know how.

He's here, in the house.

He suspects nothing.

Give me 48 hours.*

Dante read it once.

He didn't move.