Three days after the Russian's interrogation, Dante's entire operation was focused on one objective: find Sergio Moretti.
His cousin. His blood. The traitor who'd sold him out to the Volkovs.
I watched from Dante's office as men came and went with updates, each one more frustrated than the last. Sergio had gone to ground the moment he learned the Russian had talked. Smart. But not smart enough.
"He's still in the city," Marcus reported, spreading surveillance photos across Dante's desk. "Credit card ping at a bodega in Queens yesterday morning. His girlfriend's apartment shows activity. He's not running yet."
"He thinks I won't kill family," Dante said coldly, studying the photos. "That blood still means something to me."
"Does it?" I asked from where I sat by the window.
Everyone in the room turned to look at me. I was still getting used to that being acknowledged in business discussions. Being treated as if my opinion mattered.
