Page 92 of Lorenzo

“The arrangement worked,” Dante says, his black eyes finally rising to meet mine. Unreadable. Ice-cold.

“Her uncle stepped off the commission yesterday, citing the family tie. Exactly as planned.”

“Which backed the Russians into a corner,” I snap, rising and leaning down until I’m in his space. “And when rats get cornered, they bite. They didn’t just drop a warning, Dante. They sent a message directly to Emily.”

“And now, we wait,” Dante says, leaning back in his leather chair, the picture of absolute, unyielding control.

He looks too much like our father in his prime—calculating lives like numbers on a balance sheet.

“Until the time is right. Emily is insulated.”

“Insulated?” A dark, humorless laugh cuts through my chest.

“They served her a plate of fucking entrails on our doorstep. That isn’t a threat, Dante. That’s a timer counting down. You think your containment plan stops a Russian hit squad when they’ve already crossed my threshold?”

Dante’s expression doesn’t shift, but the silence stretches tight enough to snap.

He isn’t used to me questioning his calculus.

“She’s protected because I say she is, Renzo,” Dante says, his voice flat, dropping an octave. “Our best men are monitoring the situation. Stand down. Keep your eyes on the casino. When it’s time to spill blood, you’ll be the one holding the blade.”

I stare at him, feeling the dark, violent pulse vibrating in my own throat.

To the Iceberg, everything is strategy. But Emily isn’t strategy.

“You better be right, Dante,” I say, backing away slowly, my hands opening and closing at my sides. “You better be right.”

CHAPTER 40

EMILY

“Biscotti! Biscotti!”

I push deeper into the shade. Though the café patio is barely twenty yards behind me, the trees here grow thick and close together, and the gravel path quickly dissolves into dirt and overgrown roots.

I don’t know this part of the park. Low-hanging branches catch at my jacket. The light is different here—filtered and dim, making this small patch of The Ramble feel isolated and eerie despite how close we still are to the café.

I call his name again and stop to listen. Nothing comes back.

Bile rises in my throat. Something shifts in the undergrowth. “Biscotti!”

But it’s only a raccoon, gray-brown with dark markings. It hisses at me before crawling back into the brush.

I cup my hands around my mouth and scream until my throat aches. “Biscotti!”

It’s then that I hear it. A weak whimper. Barely a sound at all.

A small, frightened dog.

I move slowly, trying not to snap any twigs underfoot. I hold my breath between his cries so I can hear the next one clearly.

When it comes again, thin and trembling, I follow the sound toward a dense wall of shrubs just a few steps off the dirt trail. I push through them with both hands.

When I see what lies within, the scream tears out of my chest before I can stop it.

Biscotti.

He’s strapped to a wooden butcher-block platter hidden among the bushes—staged just yards from where I’d been sitting moments ago. His black fur is matted and clumped with blood.