Page 102 of Pietro

"Nico was with me for the November third change." I mark another elimination.

"Marco knew about all of them." She taps his name on the list.

"Marco's been with the family for fifteen years. My father trusted him."

"I'm not saying it's him. Just that we can't eliminate anyone based on sentiment."

She's right. I know she's right. But the thought of someone who's eaten at our table, protected our family, being the snake?—

"Wait." Nora's staring at the security logs. "Tony Marcelli. He accessed the shipping database the night before each hit."

The coffee mug slips from my hand, shattering on the floor. Coffee spreads across Italian marble like blood.

"That's not possible."

Nora looks up at me, and I see my own sick realization reflected in her eyes. "Pietro?—"

"Tony held me as a baby. He’s been there more than anyone." The words scrape my throat raw.

"The pattern's clear." She turns the laptop toward me. "Every time. He accessed the files, and within twelve hours, the Irish knew. We didn’t even do the research so long and it’s right in front of us."

I stare at the data, each timestamp another nail in the coffin of a man I've loved like an uncle. Tony Marcelli. Sixty-three years old. With the family since before I was born. Giuseppe's loyal soldier who became the son's trusted lieutenant.

"Maybe someone's using his access codes." Even as I say it, I know I'm grasping.

I'll kill him.

"Pietro." Nora's hand covers mine. "We need to know why."

"Why doesn't matter. Betrayal is betrayal."

"It always matters." She squeezes my fingers. "He had to know he'd be caught eventually. So why risk everything?"

I pull away, needing distance from her logic when all I want is blood. "Where is he now?"

She checks the personnel schedule. "His shift at the warehouse ends at eleven."

I check my watch. Eleven-thirty.

Marco usually stops at Gino's for coffee after. I don't want to call him yet. If he's not there I'll go to his place.

"Get your coat."

"Pietro—"

"I'm not asking, Nora."

She stands, chin lifting. "I know you're not. I'm telling you that walking in there with murder in your eyes won't get you answers."

"I don't need answers. I need blood."

"You need the truth." She steps into my space, one hand flat against my chest. "The Pietro I know is smarter than blind rage. Be smart."

The Pietro she knows. Like she sees something in me worth knowing, worth believing in. My hand covers hers, pressing it harder against my chest where my heart pounds like a war drum.

"He betrayed us."

"Yes." Her green eyes hold mine. "But you're better than that."