When I lay down, I kept my eyes on him. “You’re going to do something, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to ask some questions,” he said carefully. “That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.”
He pulled the blanket up over me, tucking it in with too much precision. That was how I knew he was lying. Dante didn’t fuss when he was calm.
“You’ll tell me if something changes?”
“Always.”
I didn’t believe him, not really. But I wanted to. And wanting was enough to let me close my eyes.
I heard him and Marco whispering by the door, voices low and tense. I didn’t catch the words—just Marco’s brief protest, a warning, something that sounded like they’ll know—and then silence as the lock clicked shut behind Dante.
By the time I opened my eyes again, he was gone.
Chapter 15: Dante
Ididn’t breathe until the lock clicked shut behind me.
Not because I thought Jade would follow. She wouldn’t—not after that. Not with the weight she was carrying, in her chest and under her ribs. But because I needed the door between us. Needed the cold hallway, the muted hum of an ice machine down the corridor. Needed a second where I wasn’t the one she was looking at like I might be the next person to betray her.
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
What the fuck was I doing?
She was right. About all of it. I’d bought her company, yanked her life out from under her, told myself it was protection because that made the guilt easier to swallow. And maybe it was protection, in the way that padlocking a birdcage is “protection.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face.
Victor had thrown the gauntlet, and I could already feel the trap taking shape. It didn’t matter how pretty the lab was, or how clean the money looked. This was about control. Leverage. Getting Jade back on the hook with something shinier than a threat.
So, yeah: I went outside, pretending I wasn’t about to do something reckless. Walked two blocks through wind that could skin a seal, past four closed coffee shops and one bar still open, even though it was barely noon. I was halfway down Spadina when I realized I hadn’t even brought a coat. Just the hotel key card, the burner phone, and a plan that wasn’t a plan at all.
Victor wanted a demonstration? Fine. I’d give him a show, but not before I found out who he was reporting to and what kind of muscle he had on the ground. There was always a middleman, always a shadow investor or a whisper campaign behind these “independent consultants.” If he was here on Caruso’s dime, then I was already dead. But if he was here for someone else—someone with a bigger agenda—I could play the space in between.
The city was half awake, traffic pulsing like a migraine, every surface glazed with dirty meltwater. I kept my stride slow and loose, a look I’d practiced since I first started carrying for Dad back in the Lower East Side. Don’t make yourself interesting. Don’t be a problem until you’re ready to be the problem.
Victor was a pro, but he’d made a mistake meeting in public. There were CCTV cameras everywhere in the hotel, and if I could get to the security desk—just for a minute—I could backtrace his escort, maybe even get a license plate if he was dumb enough to valet.
The front desk was manned by a woman with nails like icicles and a face that said she’d seen every scam in the book. I smiled, put on the accent Dad always used with strangers—gentle, a little harried, maybe a little dumb. “Hey, uh, my brother left his phone at breakfast and now he’s not picking up. I can’t reach him in the room. He’s meeting a business contact? Tall guy, glasses, navy coat? Friend of the family. You know how it is.”
She did. Rolled her eyes, tapped a few keys. “He’s not a guest. Do you have his mobile?”
I shrugged. “He said he’d be in the lounge, but maybe he went to the meeting rooms. He’s got a thing for big conference spaces.” I leaned in, a little too conspiratorial, like I was hoping to make her part of my problem. “Can you page him? Or at least check the video to see which way he went?”
She almost laughed me off, but then I said, “Mom’s going to kill me if I don’t find him. He’s the smart one; I’m just the muscle.” That won her over, or maybe she just wanted to see me gone.
She buzzed Security. A guy in a blazer showed up—too neat to be actual muscle, but I could see the bulge under the jacket, could tell by the way his eyes never stopped moving. He led me through a back hallway, up a service elevator, and into a cramped little CCTV booth that smelled like stale cigarettes and Windex.
I watched the replay from the time Victor left us. There: navy coat, glasses, a face too symmetrical to be truly forgettable. He cut through the lobby, said something to the bellhop, then out the front doors. The camera on the awning caught him sliding into the back of a black sedan, plates half-masked with road salt.
“Thank you,” I said, flashing my best dumb-lug smile. “She’s going to owe me big.” I left before they could start asking questions. Part of me hadn’t believed that work. It wouldn’t have worked in New York, but I guessed Canadians were more trusting. I walked out of the hotel, ducked into the alley behind, and dialed the only PI I knew in Toronto. The one Dad used for trouble that didn’t make it to the newspapers.
The line rang twice before a gravel-voiced man answered. “You’re calling early, Moretti.”
“I need a plate run. Toronto tag, half-obscured. You still good with traffic cams?”
