Page 77 of The Voicemail

“He’s still alive,” Luca says. “We found him in a private garage under a hotel in Tribeca with cash, a burner, and a packed bag.”

“Bring him to me.”

“He’s on his way.”

“Did he talk yet?”

“No.”

“He will once I get my hands on him.”

Luca steps beside me as I reach the center table. On the screen, Bianchi’s known properties glow red across the city. Restaurants, warehouses, shell offices, import companies, a laundry service with no customers, and an art storage business that’s moved more money than paintings.

“Raul’s men hit Bianchi’s Queens warehouse ten minutes ago,” Luca says. “Empty, but warm. Someone cleared it fast.”

“They knew we were coming.”

“Not from us this time. Bianchi knows we’re moving because half his operations just went dark.”

“Then make the other half go dark too.”

A man at the left station turns from his screen. “The Bronx restaurant is closed. Staff were sent home early. Curtains are drawn.”

“What’s it called?”

“Vespero.”

Luca pulls it up before I ask.

“It’s owned by a shell tied to Bianchi’s cousin. It wasn’t on the first list because it was buried under mountains of paperwork.”

“Then it’s the perfect place to hide her. Get a team there now.”

“I already sent them. They’re five minutes out.”

“Send more, but no one enters without my order. If Elena or Maya are inside, Bianchi put them there because he wants me rushing in blind.”

Luca’s eyes flick over my face, but he doesn’t challenge me. After all these years, he knows when to argue and when to stay quiet.

My phone buzzes with another message from the unknown number. Another photo.

Elena is in a chair this time, hands tied in front of her. Her cheek is bruised, her hair is tangled, and her eyes are clear enough to tell me she is still thinking. There is no sign of Maya. The message beneath the photo is short:

One hour.

I forward it to Luca.

He studies the image, zooming in on the edges.

“Restaurant chair. Red leather behind her. Butcher paper over the windows.”

“Vespero.”

“It fits.”

“Confirm it.”

The elevator opens behind us. Two men drag Nico into the room, and he looks worse than usual. Blood at the corner of his mouth, his hair a mess, his suit jacket gone. Even now, he tries to stand like he’s still calm, still in control.