Interlude
Marco
The first man tells me because he is afraid.
The second tells me because I break his hand.
Either way, I get the truth.
My mother has hired outside contractors.
Not security.
Not investigators.
Killers.
I stand very still in my office in Milan, phone pressed to my ear, and feel something cold settle behind my ribs.
“She said the girl was a problem,” the man says nervously. “That it needed to be… resolved.”
The girl.
Laney.
My jaw tightens.
“How many teams?” I ask.
“Two. One already stateside.”
My vision narrows.
“When?”
“Within forty-eight hours. Maybe less.”
I end the call and stare at the wall without seeing it.
For months I’ve been trying to find Laney to warn her.
Not threaten her.
Not hurt her.
Warn her.
When my father died, my mother’s grief turned into something sharp and poisonous. She blamed the girl. Blamed her mother. Blamed them for everything.
I told her to leave Laney alone.
She smiled and said she had.
She lied.
She always lies.
I grab my jacket and my gun.
“She thinks she’s erasing a mistake,” I mutter.
She has no idea what she’s started.
I call my head of security. “Cancel every contract we have that isn’t airtight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And quietly find out who she hired.”
A pause. “Your mother?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “Understood.”
I don’t waste time packing.
I don’t call ahead.
I get on the first plane to the United States.
Because if my mother’s people reach Laney first…
I won’t be cleaning up a problem.
I’ll be burying bodies.
And for the first time in a very long time, I am not afraid of what I’ll do when I get there.