Page 76 of The Voicemail

Tomaso moves immediately. “I’ll stay with her.”

“No.”

The word is flat.

Tomaso stops. “She trusts me,” he says.

I stare at him.

Bianchi does not even bother looking amused. “No, she doesn’t.”

For one second, Tomaso looks more hurt by that than by anything I said.

Two men move toward me.

I scoot back on instinct, but there’s nowhere to go. One grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet. The room tilts, and I bite the inside of my cheek until the dizziness passes.

They drag me past the bar and toward the hallway near the kitchen. I look for exits as we move. The front door is blocked. The back kitchen door has a keypad. The windows are covered but probably not barred. Two men near the entrance, one by the kitchen, Tomaso behind me, Bianchi by the bar. Too many of them to fight my way out. As they pull me down the hall, Bianchi’s voice carries behind us.

“Call Russo,” he says. “Tell him I’m tired of waiting.”

My stomach drops.

One of the men opens a door and shoves me into a small office with a desk, a filing cabinet, and one tiny window too high to reach. I stumble but manage not to fall. He cuts the zip tie from my wrists only long enough to retie my hands in front of me, then leaves and locks the door.

I stand there in the dim little room, breathing hard, wrists burning, cheek throbbing. I lower myself into the chair behind the desk because my knees are starting to shake too badly to trust. Then I press both tied hands carefully against my stomach.

“I’m trying,” I whisper.

24

ALEX

Marco pulls into the private garage while I’m still on the phone with Senator Whitmore. He’s already tried to tell me no twice, which means he isn’t listening carefully enough. That’s the problem with men who get comfortable taking money. They forget the debt still belongs to someone.

“I’m not asking you to suspend Bianchi’s waterfront permits,” I say as Marco parks near the private elevator. “I’m telling you to do it, because if you don’t, I’ll make sure every donor you’ve hidden behind a shell foundation is dragged into daylight by dinner.”

Whitmore goes quiet. I step out of the SUV and look once at the photo on my phone. Elena is on the floor of a car, her cheek bruised, and her eyes open. That is the only reason anyone in this city is still breathing normally.

“You’re asking me to start a war,” Whitmore says.

“No,” I tell him. “Bianchi started it when he took her.”

Another pause.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“I need the permits frozen and an inspection triggered. Whatever it takes—fire codes, liquor license, customs holds, union delays, any boring little pressure point you people use.”

“That kind of thing takes time.”

“You have until noon.”

I end the call before he can argue and step into the elevator. Marco follows, silent for once. He knows better than to speak when I’m working. The doors haven’t even closed before half of Bianchi’s city starts closing around him.

Luca is waiting in the command room. Three walls are live screens now, camera feeds and route maps and financial trails layered over each other, while men stand at every workstation and keep their voices low. No one looks directly at me for long, which is probably wise.

“Where’s Nico?” I ask.