The Evidence

Luca moved through the heat like a man wading through syrup. He went to the kitchen island where Dante had been standing.

The gun was there. The burner phone was not.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in Luca’s chest. Dante never took the burner to the beach. Saltwater and electronics didn't mix. Unless he didn't want Luca to see it ring.

Luca looked around. Dante’s duffel bag was sitting by the door, unzipped.

Luca knew he shouldn't. It was a violation of the code, of the friendship, of everything they stood for. But the heat was cooking his brain, and the fear was a parasite eating his logic.

He walked over to the bag. He pushed aside a stack of clean t-shirts and a box of ammunition.

There, tucked into the side pocket, was a second phone.

Luca frowned. Two burners? Dante never carried two. One for the Don, one for the crew. That was the rule. A second burner meant side deals. It meant betrayal.

Luca picked it up. His hands were shaking. He flipped it open. No passcode.

There was only one text thread. The contact was saved simply as "Management."

Luca scrolled to the draft message Dante had been typing moments ago.

* It’s done tonight. The Lamb goes to slaughter.*

The world tilted on its axis. Luca stumbled back, dropping the phone onto the rug.

* The Lamb goes to slaughter.*

It wasn't a metaphor. It was a kill order. The war in the city wasn't settling; it was escalating, and Luca was the price of peace. The Don must have cut a deal with the Russians, or the Irish, and Dante—his brother, his protector—had been given the contract.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Dante had said.

Luca laughed, a dry, hysterical sound that got stuck in his throat. Of course Dante wouldn't want him to worry. Dante was efficient. He would want it to be quick. A bullet to the back of the head while they watched the sunset. A mercy killing.

Luca looked out the window. Down on the beach, Dante was wading out of the surf. He looked massive, elemental, a force of nature that couldn't be stopped.

Luca looked at the Glock on the counter.

He wasn't a killer. He was the Consigliere. He was the diplomat. But a diplomat with a gun was still a man who wanted to live.