Page 63 of The Rook’s Obsession

“Who?”

“His name is Marco Ferretti. Works for Vincenzo. Logistics, mostly. He manages supply routes between Milan and Naples.” I pick up a peach from the stand and pretend to examine it, tilting my head just enough to track Marco’s reflection in the glass storefront beside us. “If he sees me, he reports it, and Vincenzo knows I’m here. If he knows I’m here⁠—”

“Everything is finished before it starts.” His voice has gone flat. The shift is instant, the way mine was. “Did he see you?”

“I don’t know.” And I don’t. He was looking at his phone when I spotted him, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t glance up thirty seconds earlier and clock me from the corner of his eye. It doesn’t mean he isn’t on the phone right now telling someone what he saw. I can’t know, and not knowing means I can’t take the chance.

The calculation is ugly and immediate, and it runs itself without my permission. If Marco saw me, he calls Vincenzo, who sends people. The operation is blown, and we’re running again.

If Marco didn’t see me, he goes about his day, never knowing how close he came.

But I can’t bet everything on that. Not when the stakes are this high. Not with Nick standing next to me.

I set the peach down. “We need to follow him.”

Nick studies my face. He doesn’t argue with whatever he sees there. He only starts to move when I do.

Marco is still headed north, now with the phone to his ear. I keep us on the opposite side of the street, half a block behind, matching his pace. The market crowd thins as we move further from the canal. The streets narrow into the older part of the neighborhood where the buildings press closer together and the foot traffic drops. Less cover, but also fewer eyes.

He turns left onto a side street. I hold up a hand, and Nick and I wait at the corner for three seconds before rounding it. Marco is still walking. His phone call is over, and he’s pocketed the device. Now he’s moving with less purpose, like a man killing time between appointments.

“I need you to get ahead of him,” I tell Nick. “Come at him from the other direction. Get his attention. Draw him somewhere narrow.”

Nick looks at me. A question passes between us that neither of us has to ask out loud, because we both already know the answer.

“There’s an alley past the green door,” I continue, my voice steady. “I noticed it on the way to the market. No cameras, no windows facing in. Dead end.”

He holds my gaze for one more second. Then he nods, crosses the street, and moves.

I watch him go. He cuts through a passageway between two buildings, looping around to get ahead of Marco without being seen. I hang back, tracking Marco from behind while Nick positions himself.

It takes less than two minutes. Nick emerges ahead of Marco, walking toward him. He has his phone out, looking at the screen, and as they approach each other on the narrow sidewalk, Nick stumbles slightly. He bumps Marco’s shoulder. Apologizes in Italian with a rough accent, but it’s passable enough for a brief exchange. Marco stops. Nick gestures with his hands, asking something about directions to keep him talking.

While I close the distance from behind.

Nick angles his body, still talking, then takes a half step that guides the guy’s attention toward the mouth of the alley. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Marco glances in the direction he indicates and takes a step toward the alley to look.

Nick steps with him. Another half step. Then another. Marco is in the alley now, still turned partly toward Nick, still thinking about directions or whatever it was that got him out here today.

I come in behind him.

He doesn’t hear me. Not until I’m close enough that it doesn’t matter whether he hears me or not. When he turns, his eyes go wide and his mouth opens, and I see the recognition hit. It’s not surprise or confusion, but the terrible clarity of a man who knows exactly who he’s looking at and what it means.

“Ivy—”

My name is the last thing he ever says. My hand is already moving. The blade I’ve been carrying in my jacket since we left the safe house does its work quickly and efficiently. The way I was taught. One motion. Clean. He drops, and I catch him, lowering him against the wall so there’s no sound of a body hitting the ground.

Nick is at the mouth of the alley, blocking the view from the street. He doesn’t watch. He doesn’t need to.

I crouch beside Marco and go through his pockets. Phone first—I power it down and pocket it. We’ll get rid of it later. Then his wallet. I open it and pull the cash. Three hundred euros, give or take. Enough to make it look like a motive. I wipe the wallet and drop it beside him, open and empty, the way a thief would leave it.

And that’s when I see the photos. Two of them, tucked behind a clear plastic sleeve the way people used to carry pictures before phones made it unnecessary. The first is a woman, dark-haired, smiling, standing in a garden with her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. The second is a family portrait. Marco, the woman, and two children—a boy and a girl, both under ten. The boy has Marco’s chin. The girl has his eyes.

I stare at the photos, and something cold lodges itself in my gut.

I’ve done this before. Stood over bodies and gone through pockets and walked away without looking back, because that was the job. The job didn’t require me to think about what I was leaving behind. It required me to be precise and efficient and to not ask questions. Vincenzo trained that into me the way you train any reflex—through repetition, through reward. Through the steady, patient erosion of the part of a person that hesitates.

I used to be proud that I never hesitated.