Page 35 of The Voicemail

His eyes glint. “The man who frightened her was careless.”

My hand stays loose on the table.

“Well, theoretically, if I knew anything about him, I’d probably know he’s one of yours.”

Bianchi’s expression tightens before his smile smooths it away. “You insult me.”

“I haven’t begun to insult you, Silvio.”

For a moment, the polished collector disappears. The man across from me is older, colder, and more honest. I prefer him that way.

“I didn’t send anyone to hurt the girl,” he says.

“But you sent someone to watch her.”

“To recover something that wandered out of place.”

“Elena didn’t take anything from you.”

My answer comes too fast. I know it the second it’s out, and I see it on his face. He has everything he needed from me.

“So you’re on a first-name basis. Theoretically,” he adds for good measure.

“Let’s drop the bullshit. She’s under my protection, Silvio.”

I feel the shift as soon as the words leave my mouth. Bianchi’s interest sharpens. The calculation behind his eyes changes shape. He knew she mattered because of the file. Now he knows she matters to me.

“I see,” he says softly.

“I don’t think you do.”

“Remember, Alessandro, I’m not the one who threatened her. Save your ire for that fool.”

Interesting. He’s putting distance between himself and Tomaso. Either his little pet has slipped the leash, or he wants me to believe they’re no longer working together. With Bianchi, both are possible.

Bianchi leans in slightly. “You’ve always been disciplined, Alessandro. You’ve built such a clean life. Russo Holdings. Security contracts. Restaurants. Political friends. One almost forgets what your family used to be.”

I don’t answer. The waiter appears with food neither of us plans to eat. Bianchi waits until he’s gone before I speak again.

“She doesn’t have what you’re looking for.”

“Then you won’t mind me asking her.”

“No.”

Bianchi goes very still. “No?”

“No, you won’t ask her. You won’t call her. You won’t send her flowers. You won’t put men near her home, her work, her friends, or any street she walks on. You won’t say her name again unless you want me to treat it as an invitation.”

He studies me. “I wonder if she knows what you are,” he says, and there’s a threat sitting under it.

I stand and button my jacket.

Bianchi looks up at me with that patient, poisonous smile.

“This conversation is over,” I tell him.

“Give me what she took, and this all ends.”