Page 44 of Valentino

"Bruno."

"What."

"They have her phone," I say. "My number's in it," I go on, before he can. "I imagine that the phone's already in a Basile lieutenant's hand."

"Christ." It comes out of him half-swallowed, desperate, loud as he dares. "Dante can wipe it remotely. If it's still on, if it's still got a signal⁠—"

"Tell him to try. If it's off they'll pull it apart in a lab and it will be impossible to wipe. And tell Vittoria before someone else does. She finds out her friend got taken from a stranger, you'll have two wars instead of one."

"I'll tell her." His voice drops. "She's going to want to come."

"She can't."

"I know she can't." A long breath. "Doesn't mean she won't try. You know what she's like when it's Amanda. There's a short list of people Vittoria would burn it all down for, and that girl's on it." He pauses. "So is the man who pulled her out of that room, in case you were wondering where you stand."

I don't answer that. I don't know where I stand. Twenty-two years carrying the guilt of standing outside, hand to the wall, watching. Tonight I went through the door. The guilt came too.

"Fifteen minutes," I say again, putting the wall between the past and present—and my feelings about any of it—back in place.

"Valentino. The old man's going to want blood for this. There's no version of this where he doesn't. You understand you made this personal. You beat him to death with your hands. Enzo will know exactly how his son died."

"Good," I say.

I hang up before he can ask me what I mean by that, because I'm not sure.

I push the door open. Her mouth is curled downward and her brows pitch low between her eyes. Fingers grasp the air, for something that isn’t there. Me. I want it to be me, and hate myself a little.

My phone buzzes against the wooden table, skittering toward the edge before I catch it. One word from Luca. Here.

I cross the safe house, weapon already in my hand because I always have a gun when I open a door. No exceptions. The bolt slides back, and the hinges complain like everything else in this damp little box.

Luca stands on the threshold.

I step back to let him in, and for a second I just look at his green eyes that blink less than they should.

I'm not in the business of cracking a man open on his way through a door. I just remind him sometimes that I remember who he was. That somebody still does.

My phone lights up again.

I answer and prop it against the half-empty whiskey bottle so I can keep my hands free, and the screen fractures into faces. Five of them.

Bruno fills the top box, broad and heavy-browed, sitting forward. Next Lorenzo, jacket off, sleeves rolled, calm as still water and twice as deep. Below them Nico, fingers already moving on something I can't see. Pietro in the corner, jaw tight, looking like a storm deciding which town to flatten. And Dante. All the Sartori brothers.

"You look like shit," Pietro says.

"Buonasera to you too."

"Is she alive?" Nico cuts in, always to the point.

"She's breathing. Drugged. She'll come up out of it by morning." I glance at her, then back at the screen. "One bruise mark. Nothing else visible."

Lorenzo just closes his eyes for half a second. Vittoria's an unspoken presence in the room. Amanda is hers in every way that matters. If I'd been four minutes slower, I'd be on this call explaining to my youngest cousin why her best friend came home in pieces.

Luca crosses behind me and takes the wall, back to it, eyes on the window. He never sits. I'm not sure I've seen Luca sit since what happened to him.

On screen, Dante's eyes shift to him. "Farro."

Luca dips his chin a half inch. The whole reunion.