I perched on the arm of the battered couch, elbows on my knees, clutching a mug of instant coffee that tasted like wet cardboard but reminded me of home. I traced the rim with a fingertip, feeling the heat bite at my skin, trying to decide if I was scared or just past the point of caring. Probably both.
I didn’t sleep. Marco coughed and shuffled and muttered, but when he finally passed out, I lay awake, listening to the ancient radiator hiss and clang, waiting for the phone to ring again. It never did. The street outside was whiteout silent—the kind of hush that made every distant siren sound like it was coming for me.
At dawn, I showered, put on clean clothes, and braided my hair tight—tight enough to pull lines at my temples. Dante made eggs, which nobody ate. Marco swapped his pajama pants for the same jeans he’d worn for three days, then spent five full minutes in front of the mirror, trying to look less like a guy whose insides had been rearranged by a bullet. I watched him, a little impressed.
Dante poured coffee into a Snapple bottle and tucked it under his arm. “Ready?”
Marco raised both hands in a boxer’s pose. “Born ready.”
I wondered if I’d ever been ready for any of this, or if life was just a series of dress rehearsals before the real disaster hit.
The walk to the Four Seasons was only seven blocks, but Dante kept a zigzag pace, doubling back twice and pausing at every reflective surface. I followed his lead, ducking into a flower shop to pretend I cared about tulips, or into a bakery to “check the menu” before moving on. Marco didn’t bother. He just kept going, like his only job was to put one foot in front of the other.
When we got within a block of the hotel, Dante slowed to a crawl. I caught the signal: time to look for tails. I scanned the street, the lobby windows, the glass towers catching the morning sun. No cops. No brown-jacket Victor, unless he’d drastically changed his look overnight. Just the usual Toronto blend: suits, joggers, old ladies in overwashed fleece.
Inside, the lobby was over-warm, over-bright, the floors so clean it felt like walking on ice. Dante led us to a low couch at the edge of the room. Marco slumped beside him, breathing shallow. I sat next to Marco, knees locked, hands jammed in my coat pockets.
At exactly ten, a man in a navy peacoat and wire-rimmed glasses stepped through the side entrance and scanned the room. Shorter than Dante, a bit broader, but with the same predator’s confidence. He paused at the front desk, whispered something to the concierge, then headed straight for us, posture casual, hands in his pockets.
He stopped two feet from the couch and studied us, not even bothering to sit. “Mr. Moretti,” he said. “Ms. Bentley.”
“Dr. Bentley,” Dante’s eyes narrowed. “Victor, I assume.”
The man smiled—a quick flick of the lips. “Paul Victor, yes. I appreciate your punctuality. Would you mind coming with me? There’s a private lounge down the hall. Your brother should be comfortable there.”
Dante didn’t move. “If this is business, we do it here.”
Victor cocked his head, disappointment flickering across his face. “As you wish.” He took the armchair opposite, smoothed his coat, and folded his hands over his knee.
I felt Marco tense beside me, but I kept my eyes on Victor, searching for his tick, that tell. He looked ordinary, but there was something in the way he took in every detail—like he was recording anything he could.
Dante leaned back, arms folded, pure defiance. “Who are you working for?”
Victor waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing so crude. I’m an independent consultant. You understand how that goes.”
I bristled. “If you’re not here to kill us, why are we here?”
Victor shrugged, as if it were obvious. “Because you’re valuable.” He looked at me for the first time, and I felt it—a jolt as his gaze flicked over my belly before settling on my face. “And because the situation in New York is…delicate. The Carusos are chasing you out of spite, but you’re not their only project. They have contracts with some very resourceful people who think you’re more useful alive than dead.”
Dante scoffed. “Give me a name.”
Victor smiled, revealing a flash of teeth. “Names are fluid in my business. But let’s not pretend you don’t have your own sources, Mr. Moretti. If you haven’t figured out why they want her, you aren’t the man I’ve been told you are.”
My stomach twisted, and I felt the old academic urge to interrupt, to demand the hypothesis before the punchline. “What do you want from me?”
Victor’s eyes locked on mine. “A demonstration.”
My mouth went dry. “Of what?”
He just watched me. “What’s your research about again? What were you doing in BioHQ?”
I swallowed. “My research is focused on genomes. I don’t know how that’s so exciting.”
“I’m not a scientist,” Victor replied. “Just someone interested in facts, right? It’s a fact that breakthroughs in your research could make some people a lot of money, correct?”
I opened my mouth to argue—because it sounded so cheap, this reducing of everything I'd ever worked for to a dollar sign—but Victor cut me off. “Ms. Bentley, if I wanted to hand you off to Caruso, you would already be in a trunk headed for Buffalo. I’m offering a better deal.” He glanced at Dante, as if expecting him to fill in the rest.
Dante didn’t blink. “If you want her to work for you, say it.”
