Page 138 of The Cost of Silence

“That’s not funny.”

“I know,” I say more gently. “But I mean it. Go be a dad. Let me return the favor of Thanksgiving. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

He hesitates, phone already in his hand. “You sure?” he asks.

“Yes.” I spread my arms slightly. “Do I look like I’m about to go clubbing?”

He scans my face for a second, then nods once, the decision landing. “All right,” he says. “If anything feels off, anything, you call me first, then Nico. And you don’t open that door unless you hear my voice or Matteo’s.”

“Got it.”

He steps in, surprising me with a quick, tight hug. It’s brotherly, a little awkward, but solid.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“For understanding. For not making this harder.”

I squeeze back. “Go.”

He leaves in a flurry of keys and tension, calling something to the guards in the hallway about staying sharp. The door closes. The lock clicks.

Silence settles, thick and heavy.

I exhale slowly and turn back to my notebook. There are still gaps in the timeline from the last few weeks, places where motivation doesn’t quite match opportunity, and if my brain is busy picking at those, it’s not busy replaying the weight of Rossi’s body sagging under my hands.

I lose track of time. The Christmas tree clicks on its automatic timer, lights warming the corner of the room. The late afternoon light shifts from cold gray to something softer, smearing itself across the glass.

I’m halfway through a sentence about access points, a list of people who could logically know when I leave the building, when I hear the door.

The sound is slight, just the whisper of the latch, but in the quiet, it’s loud enough that my head snaps up.

For a second, I think Adi forgot something. Maybe Letty’s favorite toy, maybe his laptop, maybe his sanity.

“Did you…” I start, pushing back my chair.

Then I stop, because the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Adi has a distinct way of coming into a room, all controlled energy and purpose. He calls out, often too formal, “It’s just me” because he’s a considerate man in a house full of people with hair-trigger reflexes.

The person stepping into the living room now is silent.

He moves with a certain kind of confidence, that unhurried, predatory grace I’ve learned to associate with men who don’t fear consequence. He’s in a dark, perfectly cut suit, a charcoal overcoat open over it, and a scarf looped once around his neck like an afterthought. Silver threads through his dark hair at the temples, and his face is lined, not with softness, but with the kind of age you get from staying alive when other people didn’t.

He looks like trouble dressed for a board meeting.

He also looks, unmistakably, like the Mancini brothers.

Same bone structure. Same dark eyes, though his have something oily in them that slithers up my spine. Same charisma, but this one feels like a knife, not a shield.

He smiles when he sees me.

“You must be Isabella,” he says, as if we’re meeting at a charity gala. His voice is smooth, faintly amused, Italian vowels still clinging to the edges. “I’ve been looking forward to finally meeting you face to face.”

I stand slowly, every muscle suddenly very aware of itself. “The door was locked,” I say. It’s not a greeting, but he doesn’t seem offended.

“Locks are for people who respect them,” he replies. “I am not one of those people.” He shrugs out of his overcoat, draping it neatly over the back of a chair like he owns the place. “I’m Domenico. Nico’s uncle.”