Page 34 of Pietro
"Pietro Sartori isn't a wolf." Finn's tone changes, becomes something I can't quite read. "He's something else entirely."
"What does that mean?"
"It means stay close to him. Let him protect you." A door closes on his end. "I have to go. I'll contact you when I can."
"Finn, wait?—"
But the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, fighting the urge to hurl it against the marble wall. Instead, I remove the battery and SIM card, crushing the latter under my heel before flushing it down the toilet.
The battery I'll dispose of elsewhere. The phone itself I'll smash and scatter across different trash cans.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to clear my thoughts. Why couldn't Finn just help me disappear? Why the elaborate scheme involving the Sartoris?
My uncle isn't a man who acts without purpose. He left the family business years ago, cutting ties with my father and the Irish mob.
But he never completely abandoned me, appearing at graduations, sending birthday cards, offering quiet support from the periphery of my life.
After Mom died, he became more present. Still distant, but watchful. And when I called him three weeks ago, desperate and bleeding, he didn't hesitate to help.
But this? Sending me to the Sartoris? There has to be more to his plan than just keeping me safe.
CHAPTER TEN
PIETRO
Potholes and cracked asphalt punish the Maserati’s suspension. Beside me, Nora is silent. Her fingers tap a frantic, unconscious rhythm against her thigh.
"The manifests from last week." I break the silence, needing distraction from how her perfume fills the car. "What did you find?"
Her fingers stop their dance. "Discrepancies in the European shipments. Someone's either stealing or redirecting product."
"How much?"
"Three to five percent. Small enough to avoid immediate notice, large enough to matter over time."
Smart. Exactly the kind of slow bleed that could cripple operations if left unchecked.
We are heading there to have a closer look and I wanted Nora to be with me. She sees things I don’t and that’s what makes her so fucking important right now.
The shipping office rises ahead. A concrete block of functionality squatting at the water's edge. No architecturalpretense here, just steel and concrete built to withstand Chicago winters and mob business alike. I park beside the loading dock where Fabio’s crew should be working. Should be, but the space sits empty.
The air is still. Too still. The usual clang of containers and shouts of the crew are gone. A knot tightens in my gut. This is wrong.
"Stay close." My hand finds the Glock beneath my jacket, the weight familiar as breathing.
Nora is already moving, her stride matching mine. No questions, no hesitation. Her eyes are on my shoulders, reading the coiled tension there, and she adapts without a word. The woman is a survivor.
The office door stands ajar. That never happens. Fabio runs security tighter than Fort Knox.
I push it open with my foot, gun drawn but low. The space beyond is exactly as it should be. Metal desks, filing cabinets, the smell of burnt coffee and cigarettes. Fabio's jacket hangs on his chair. His coffee mug steams on the desk.
"Where is everyone?" Nora's voice stays steady, but I catch the slight rise in pitch.
"Good question."
The manifests she needs spread across the main desk. Exactly where I asked Fabio to leave them. Too convenient. Too perfect.
