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The same heat from the doorway returned. Quieter now. More dangerous because there was no man outside forcing us together. I moved away before I forgot why I should. Adriana released my shirt slowly.

We were no longer searching for a journalist brave enough to expose the truth. We were going to scatter the evidence so widely that killing Adriana would only make it louder. And the next time the Coccicos came for her, I would not wound men to question them. I would leave enough bodies behind that no one would have time to beg for mercy.

31

ADRIANA

The safe house occupied the rooms above a tailor’s shop. The shutters were drawn, the brass numbers beside the entrance had tarnished almost black, and old advertisements curled behind the glass downstairs. It looked like it had been closed for a long time, forgotten and unused.

One of Raze’s men unlocked the door and led us up a narrow staircase that smelled of damp stone. He checked every room before handing Demitri an encrypted phone.

“Are all our men accounted for?” Demitri asked.

The guard’s expression hardened. “Paolo is dead. We recovered his body before the police reached the café.”

Demitri showed no reaction, though something in his face became colder.

“The men who followed us?”

“One died near the market. Two escaped. Raze’s team took another alive.”

The guard left without another word. The lock turned behind him.

Demitri drew his pistol and checked the apartment again. He moved through every room with his weapon raised, testing cupboards, doors and windows even though a trained guard had already cleared them. He looked beneath beds, behind curtains and inside a narrow storage space beside the kitchen.

He didn’t stop until he had checked the final window latch twice.

I stood in the centre of the sitting room and watched him.

The apartment looked like it had been furnished for people who never planned to remain longer than a night. A faded sofa faced a cold fireplace. Two mismatched chairs sat beneath a wall clock that had stopped at four thirteen. Dust gathered along the floorboards, and damp stains darkened the plaster near the ceiling.

My coat had become unbearably heavy. Lucia’s blood had dried across the sleeve.

I looked down at the dark stain, and the café window shattered again inside my head.

Lucia’s body jerked against the chair.

The red scarf slipped from her shoulder.

Demitri caught her before she struck the floor and pressed his hand over the wound, even though the bullet had torn through the centre of her chest and there had been nothing left to save.

Her blood had run between his fingers.

I reached for the buttons of my coat. My hands would not obey me.

Demitri returned from the hallway.

“All clear.”

I dragged at the top button. It slipped from my fingers. His attention dropped to the blood on my sleeve.

“Adriana.”

“I need to take it off.”

I tried again, but the button blurred beneath my shaking fingers.

He crossed the room.