Page 67 of A Murder of Crows

Poison. Because he always eats my fucking food,testingit, despite me telling him not to. I always thought it was overkill.

The tears drop onto his chest.

“Please,” I pray. “Please.”

“There’s a car outside, if we can move him.” Vincent is talking, but it sounds garbled as I stare down at Domenico. Dante pinches his nose again, leans down, and it strikes me how strange it is to see him working like that on Dom, fighting to save him, when a few months ago he might have stood back and watched him die without much thought at all.

“Come on, you fucker,” he growls down at him as he sits up. “You’re too damn pig-headed to go out like this, Rossi.”

My hand is trembling over his chest, and it takes me a second to feel it.

The faintest movement beneath my fingers, pushing them up.

And then down again.

“He’s breathing – his chest is moving.”

I can barely get the words out, but Dante pushes his fingers up against Dom’s neck, waiting, before he barks out a low laugh. “I knew it, stubborn asshole. There’s a pulse.”

Vincent and Tony lift him onto one of the stretchers we keep in the medical bay for emergencies as I stand back, carrying him out of the hall towards the car. “Drive fast.”

“You’re not coming?” Vincent turns to look at me, everyone turns to look at me.

“Later.” My voice is glacial, frost gathering even as the tears still dampen my skin. “I have work to do.”

I follow them to the doors, watching as Dom is carefully lifted into the car.

And then I pull the double doors closed, sealing off the room.

Turning, I beckon, and several Crows step forward. “Nobody goes in or out of this room until I am done.”

Because someone here is responsible for the terror still radiating through my body, for the horror of watching Domenico gasp and flail for breath.

I intend to find them.

Slowly, I move through the scattered crowd. People turn to watch me with solemn, fearful faces, arms crossed. They murmur to the person next to them, shift on their feet, look towards the door.

People who have nothing to hide.

I know my own suspicions, and they lead me directly to where Leo is seated, a group of men around him all smirking at me. His lip curls as he meets my eye. “Don’t look at me. The order was given and obeyed.”

“By you, perhaps. But it seems that somebody here missed the memo.”

A small crease appears between his eyes, and he glances down the table. Following my own gaze.

Body language is an interesting thing. There are a hundred different ways to give yourself away without ever even opening your mouth.

Most people would assume it’s movement. That somebody with something to hide would look shifty, would be shuffling with nerves, eyes glancing everywhere. Guilty.

But here, in this room, it’s their stillness that catches my eye. In a space full of nervous people, they hold themselves perfectly, unnaturally still. Eyes down.

By trying not to draw my attention, they have done exactly that.

The crowd whispers as I turn, strolling down the Asante table.

And past it.

When I finally pause, a ripple of whispers echoes behind me.