37. Lorenzo
LORENZO
Gianni stands to his left.
Camron waits half a step behind them, a folder tucked beneath his arm, patience settled across his face. He smiles the moment he sees me.
Too easily.
Men smile differently when they believe they’re safe.
“You came up alone?” Camron asks.
“I prefer quiet elevators.”
His smile stays in place.
“Fair enough.”
Mateo looks at me once.
Nothing more.
He knows enough not to ask questions in hallways.
I stop behind him. The carpet is thick beneath my shoes.
At the far end, a service cart sits abandoned beside a vase of white lilies. No staff. No sound from the rooms nearby.
Mateo lifts his hand and taps the door twice.
Not a knock from a guest.
A signal.
Then he pushes it open.
His right hand settles near his jacket, close enough to reach his pistol if needed without making it look deliberate.
Marcus Vance looks up from the table.
He is sitting with one arm stretched along the back of his chair, silver hair brushed back, a glass of water in front of him instead of scotch. Morning makes him look older. Less polished. The lines near his mouth sit deeper in daylight.
Two of his men stand behind him.
They glance at Mateo’s hand.
Then at mine.
Then away.
Smart enough.
“Don Lorenzo,” Vance says.
“Marcus.”
I’m here at exactly 10:25.
Not early.
Never late.
A man who arrives early looks eager.
A man who arrives late wants attention.
Time speaks well enough for itself.
Mateo closes the door behind us.
Gianni takes a position near the left wall. Camron takes the chair near the south side of the room, but not beside the window. Not exactly where I want him to stand or sit. I want him exactly where the Anchor is supposed to see him once the moment comes.
He has no idea he is already posing for a dead man.
Vance gestures to the table. “You brought it?”
“I brought enough.”
“That answer gets more expensive every time you give it.”
“It should.”
He laughs once through his nose and reaches for the case in front of him. The same silver testing kit appears beneath his hand, cleaner than most men’s consciences in this business. Reagent ampoules. Strips. Scale. Glass dish wrapped in cloth.
Camron watches with interest.
Too much interest.
I place the sealed package on the table.
Vance’s eyes settle on it. His expression changes before he can hide it. Greed is never patient. It leans forward even when the body stays still.
“Half the first order,” I say.
He looks at the package, then at me. “By another Friday, you said.”
“It is Friday.”
“I expected later.”
“I know.”
That earns me a thin smile. “You enjoy making men adjust.”
“I enjoy knowing who can.”
His smile fades a little.
Mateo sets the cash bag on the table. Vance’s man opens it first, then turns it toward us. Mateo counts without sitting. His gloved hands move through the stacks, quiet and neat. Gianni watches Vance’s men. Camron flips the edge of his folder once, then stops when I look at him.
“Numbers changed,” Vance says.
“They will again.”
His gaze lifts. “How soon?”
“When supply costs move.”
“Everything costs more with you.”
“No. Everything costs what it is worth.”
Vance leans back. His fingers tap once against the glass.
There it is.
That old rhythm from prison, returning when he dislikes the corner but sees the door.
“North Shore buyers are already asking questions,” he says. “The first sample moved faster than expected.”
“Then you underpriced it.”
“I priced it to open mouths.”
“And now?”
“Now their mouths are open.”
A faint smile touches me.
Camron gives a small chuckle, eager to fit into the room.
I let him.
He always seems careless when he feels included.
Vance opens the package and removes one sealed sample.
He insists on testing it himself.
His hands never waver, but his eyes sharpen when the reagent changes colour.
Clean.
No clouding.
No impurities.
He checks the strip.
Then the scale.
Then repeats the process with another ampoule.
Pride always wants confirmation.
When the second result matches the first, he studies it for a long moment.
“Consistent.”
“That was the agreement.”
“That was the miracle.”
“There are no miracles.”
I hold his gaze.
“Only standards.”
His eyes drift toward Camron before returning to me.
Mateo finishes the count and looks at me.
All there.
I do not need him to say it.
Vance seals the test kit and pushes the package toward his man. “Same warehouse route?”
“No.”
His brows rise.
“New route. New handlers. Your men receive the address thirty minutes before transfer.”
“I don’t enjoy surprises.”
“You are alive because you can tolerate them.”
The room breathes through the air vents. Rain dots the south window in thin lines. Beyond it, the city sits beneath a pale morning sky. The tower across the street cuts through the view, dark glass against grey cloud.
Vance signs off on the exchange. Mateo takes the cash. Vance’s men take the product. The transaction ends without raised voices, without a threat, without any wasted movement.
Business, when done properly, should look boring to a fool.
At 10:47 a.m., I stand.
Vance stands too.
We shake hands across the table.
His grip is firm. His eyes remain on mine.
“You continue to keep this quality, Lorenzo, and everyone else remains insignificant.”
“Everyone else already is.”
He releases my hand with a short laugh.
For a second, Vance’s face stills.
Then he smiles, but it does not reach his eyes.
He leaves first with his men and the product. The door shuts behind them.
The room changes.
Not enough for Camron to feel it.
Enough for Matteo.
Gianni begins collecting the used glasses from the table.
He has no idea why today must feel ordinary.
That’s exactly why I keep him here.
The innocent never imitates guilt.
Camron sits with one ankle resting across the other.
The folder remains on his lap.
Comfortable.
Relaxed.
Certain the day is unfolding exactly as he expected.
I glance at my watch.
10:49.
“I need to wash my face,” I say.
Matteo gives me half a glance.
Camron nods. “Of course.”
I walk into the bathroom and close the door most of the way.
White marble.
Gold fixtures.
A sink large enough for three men to lean over at once.
Hotels have a talent for looking untouched. Bright stone. Polished brass. Perfect mirrors. They hide every ugly story that passes through them.
I turn on the tap.
Water crashes into the porcelain, steady enough to cover a quiet conversation.
I wet my hands, splash my face once, then take out my phone.
Hugo DeLuca answers on the second ring.
“It’s moving,” I say.
“I’m watching.”
“Account?”
“Ready.”
“Send confirmation the second it lands.”
A brief pause.
“You really think he’ll pay above his own price?”
“He already has.”
The line goes quiet.
Then I hear Hugo breathe out.
I end the call before two minutes pass.
The tap keeps running.
I dry my face, leave the water pouring into the sink, and step back into the suite.
Camron looks up.
I pat my pocket before glancing toward the bathroom.
“Camron.”
“Yes?”
“Turn that off for me.”
He blinks.
“The tap,” I say. “I left it running.”
“Oh.”
He rises without hesitation.
“Sure.”
He walks past me and disappears into the bathroom.
The instant his shoulder vanishes beyond the doorway, I move.
Three seconds across the south window.
Not hurried or slow.
Just enough.
The tower stands beyond the rain, its dark windows staring back at the hotel.
Too many places for a man to hide behind glass and convince himself distance keeps him safe.
I cross the line of sight once.
Then again.
Long enough to be recognised.
Never long enough to invite a bullet.
When I’m done, I take Camron’s chair.
The one away from the window.
Mateo remains near the door.
His expression doesn’t change.
Gianni stacks the used glasses onto the tray, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else.
Good.
Camron returns, drying his hands against his trousers.
His steps slow when he sees me sitting in his place.
Only for a moment.
Then the smile returns.
He takes the only chair left.
Beside the south-facing window.
Rain trails down the glass behind him, carrying a pale reflection of the city.
His reflection joins it.
Exactly where I need him.
I glance at my watch.
Eleven o’clock.
Beneath the table, I unlock Camron’s recovered phone and send the message already waiting in drafts.
Waiting for payment confirmation. Five minutes left.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Done.
Three seconds later, Hugo’s message lights up my own phone.
Funds received.
A screenshot follows.
The amount is higher than the figure recovered from Camron’s earlier exchange with Anchor.
Enough to insult me.
He has been taking a commission from betrayal.
I lock the screen and set the phone face down.
Camron adjusts his cuff.
“Everything all right?”
I look at Mateo.
“You good?”
His answer is barely more than a murmur.
“Good.”
Then I turn to Camron.
“You good?”
He nods.
I let the silence settle.
Then I smile.
“When money lands, you don’t nod.”
His brow lifts.
“You give a sign.”
I lean back.
“A nod is for priests and waiters.”
Gianni lets out a short laugh.
Camron laughs too, relieved to be included.
I raise my hand with my thumb pointing upward.
“You good?”
He copies me immediately.
Thumb raised.
Clear.
Simple.
Visible through binoculars.
“There,” I say.
“Now you look paid.”
He laughs again.
Gianni joins him.
Mateo doesn’t.
Outside the south window, I see nothing.
I don’t need to.
Anchor has everything he came for.
Vance has left.
The buyer is gone.
The signal has been given.
And the traitor sits exactly where every eye expects him to be.
I rise.
“Gianni.”
He straightens.
“Yes, Don.”
“Stay with Camron.”
“Of course.”
I look at Camron.
“Wait here.”
His smile slips for a fraction of a second.
“Is there a problem?”
“No.”
That single word unsettles him more than reassurance ever could.
I button my jacket.
“Matteo.”
He’s already moving.
The door opens before I reach it.
We step into the corridor together.
Behind us, the latch clicks shut, leaving Camron and Gianni inside Room 107.
To Camron, it looks ordinary.
A private conversation.
A brief discussion between a Don and his underboss.
Nothing more.
Exactly as intended.
Mateo and I walk only a few doors before slipping into Room 105.
The door closes behind us.
Two men are already inside.
Alessio Moretti stands beside the curtains, his coat open, his hands where everyone can see them.
Dante Bellini leans against the far wall, watching the peephole monitor trained on Room 107.
Neither speaks.
Neither needs to.
The room is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning.
Fresh carpet.
Cold coffee.
Expectations hanging in the air.
I stop in the middle of the room.
Everything is ready.
Almost.
One piece remains.
Two men still have to get into the car below.
Anyone watching needs to believe only Camron and I remain upstairs.
Mateo catches one of our men’s eyes and gives a small nod.
No words.
None are necessary.
The two men leave.
The door closes behind them.
Silence returns.
One minute passes.
Then another.
I watch the second hand travel around the face of my watch.
Below us, those two men need to reach the car.
If Anchor is where he’s supposed to be, he’ll see every step.
We wait.
Three minutes.
Four.
My phone vibrates.
The sound cuts through the room.
I take it from my pocket.
A message.
Two men are in the car.
I’m coming in.
Stay down. No reason to get caught in the hit. We still have business to do.
A slow smile reaches my mouth.
Confirmation.
The final piece is in place.
I lock the screen and slide the phone back into my jacket.
Beyond the wall, Camron still sits beside the south-facing window with Gianni.
Waiting.
Completely unaware that every decision leading to this morning has brought him exactly where I wanted him.
I check my watch.
11:09 a.m.
Now we see who comes for him.