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—Lunch?

—Is the air better on ten than at the top?

—Either get in the elevator and come up here, or I'll send someone down to get you.

I stared at that last one. Bit my lip.

God, I missed him.

But now wasn't the time.

Once I finished this project... he'd understand.

But I underestimated him. Underestimated how much control he needed.

Four p.m. The workshop door slammed open.

Sharp heels clacked across the floor.

I froze mid-cut, chalk and shears in hand. Looked up.

It wasn't my supervisor. Not a sneering coworker.

Clara.

She crossed the room fast, heels clicking, a gold-embossed folder in hand. Her face was tight as a drawn bowstring. She stopped at my cutting table.

The other workers—ironing, pinning—stopped. Stared.

Clara didn't look at them. She planted the folder on my worktable. Took a breath. Her voice was sharp. Unyielding.

"Ms. Ruby Caldwell."

I set down my shears. My pulse kicked. "Clara? Is it the quality check—"

"This is a direct order from Mr. Moretti's office."

She cut me off. Leaned in. Her voice dropped to a pressure-laced murmur only I and a few nearby workers could hear.

"You are to take the complete revised garment set immediately to the executive office on the top floor for final review. Now."

Clara straightened. Gestured toward the door. Her eyes held something complicated. "Ms. Caldwell. Please. Don't keep Mr. Moretti waiting. You know his temper."

Chapter 23

Marcelo

"Chop off that bastard's fingers. One by one. Pack them in ice and have them on Lorenzo DeLuca's bed by midnight."

Outside the rusted shipping container at the abandoned Long Island docks, the briny wind carried the stench of diesel and guts. I rolled up the sleeves of my French cuff shirt—dark red stains spattered across the fabric—and kept my voice low.

Rocco didn't ask questions. He just bowed his head and signaled two shotgun-wielding men to drag DeLuca's informant down the concrete pier, the man's kneecaps already pulverized by chains. Rubber boots scraped through the blood, leaving two garish trails on the rough ground.

The East River slammed against the breakwater. Thunder without the storm.

Third cleanup this week.

Five days ago, Lorenzo—that coked-out piece of shit—used three trucks of military-grade explosives to turn our Brooklyn freight dock into an inferno. Twenty million in couture silk and smuggled art reduced to ash. Two guards had their spines snapped and were thrown off the cargo ship as fish food.