Page 84

I shrug free of the restraining hands, breathing hard. The fight crowd has backed away, forming a circle around us. Some look impressed, others wary. Joey, my intended target, has disappeared.

Blood drips from a cut above my eye, mixing with the sweat streaming down my face. I straighten my jacket, wincing at the pain in my ribs where Vittorio landed a solid kick.

“Anyone else feeling nostalgic?” I ask the silent crowd, my voice low and dangerous.

No one moves. No one speaks.

“Good.”

I cross to the bar, leaving Vittorio’s unconscious form for his friends to deal with. The bartender slides a towel across the countertop without making eye contact. I press it to my bleeding eyebrow.

“Joey?” I ask her quietly.

“Left through the back,” she mutters. “Said to tell you the old planning office behind the Chinese restaurant on Fulton. If you hurry.”

I toss the bloody towel and another hundred on the bar and stride toward the exit. My phone buzzes again as I retrieve my gun from the doorman.

“Yeah,” I answer, stepping back into the alley.

“What the hell happened?” Nicolo demands, his voice tight with concern. “I just got a call from a guy at The Watering Hole. They said you nearly killed Vittorio Canzano.”

“He’ll live,” I say dismissively, checking the street before heading toward Fulton. “Unfortunately.”

“Marco, for fuck’s sake, get a hold of yourself. You can’t go around beating the shit out of connected men because you’re pissed at the world. You’re making enemies we don’t need right now.”

“I don’t have time for this,” I growl. “I’ve got a lead.”

“What lead? Where are you going?”

“I’ll call you when I have something concrete.”

“Marco—”

I end the call and slip the phone into my pocket. My head throbs where Vittorio landed a punch, but the pain is clarifying somehow.

For the first time in days, I feel something other than the hollow ache of Aria’s absence.

Fulton Street appears ahead, its row of shuttered storefronts reminding all of the city’s economic downturn. I find the Chinese restaurant—Golden Dragon, its neon sign flickering weakly in the gathering dusk. Behind it, a narrow passage leads to what might once have been an office, now little more than a concrete box with a corrugated metal door.

I approach cautiously, hand resting on my gun. The door is slightly ajar, a sliver of light escaping through the crack. I push it open with my foot, staying to the side in case of an ambush.

“You can come in, Bianchi,” a voice calls from inside. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have sent for you.”

I step inside, blinking as my eyes adjust to the harsh fluorescent lighting. The room is spartan—a metal desk, a few folding chairs, and walls covered in maps and photographs. A man sits behind the desk, perhaps fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and hard eyes.

“Who are you?” I ask, remaining by the door.

“Someone who knows your wife,” he says simply. “And her sister.”

My heart rate accelerates, but I keep my face impassive. “Where are they?”

“Safe,” he says with a small shrug. “For now. But that’s not why I reached out.”

“Then why did you?”

He gestures to the chair opposite him. I remain standing.

“Suit yourself.” He pulls a leather-bound book from a drawer and places it on the desk. “Recognize this?”