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“Okay.”

I sigh. “Okay?”

“Mm.”

“You don’t want to know where I’m going?”

She pulls the blanket higher over her shoulder. “I don’t care, Domenico. Just let me sleep.”

The words hit harder than they fucking should.

I stare down at the back of her head, irritation flaring hot and immediate. Not because she needs my permission to sleep or because I expect her to interrogate me every time I leave the penthouse. In fact, that would be very unlike her.

But fuck, I hate leaving her when she’s like this. I crouch beside the couch and turn her face toward me just enough that I can see her.

“I’ll be back.”

Her eyes barely open. “Okay.”

Fuck.

I kiss her forehead, force myself to stand, and leave before I decide Paolo can wait too.

24

Domenico

The warehouse Paolo told me to come to sits on a stretch of industrial road where the streetlights flicker and die halfway down the block. I park beside Gio’s SUV and kill the engine. The silence follows me inside.

Concrete floor. Metal shelving. The sharp, chemical smell of cleaning products that don’t quite mask the underlying must of old cardboard and dust. Paolo’s set up at a folding table in the back, his laptop casting a blue glow across his face. Gio stands beside him with his arms crossed.

Neither of them smiles when I walk in.

“What do you have?” I ask as soon as I reach them.

Paolo turns the laptop toward me. The screen is split—bank records on the left, a timeline on the right. Dates. Amounts. Names. My son is nothing if not efficient.

“Harry opened an account at Citizens Bank in May of last year,” Paolo explains.

As he continues to talk, I notice his cockiness is gone. The version of him that returned from spending time with family in Chicago is a lot more mature and confident.

“The first transfer from NovaGen Pharmaceuticals was almost five thousand.”

I lean forward, bracing my hands on the edge of the table, making it creak.

“After that, there’ve been monthly transfers. It started out as five grand every month, but then it increased—”

“Let me guess,” I interject on a growl. “The payments increased when Paige Adams got worse?”

Paolo taps at the screen. “Exactly. It was ten grand for a few months, then eleven, twelve…”

The numbers crawl across the screen in neat rows. Dates. Amounts. A trail so fucking obvious it’s almost insulting.

“Do you remember when he came to see you?” Gio asks.

I shrug. “Not the exact date, if that’s what you’re asking. But it was early October, I think.”

Paolo sighs dramatically. “Luckily, the dude working in your reception makes every visitor sign in.” My son’s quiet as he pulls up the exact date from an email exchange with the receptionist. “Here we go.”