Chapter 4 - The Price of Being Protected

By three that afternoon, I had learned two things about being protected by Matteo Conti.

First, protection involved an exhausting number of doors being opened before I reached them.

Second, every person doing the opening seemed to believe I should be grateful.

I was not.

Back at the Beacon Hill townhouse, I stood in the front hall while Leo explained that I could not return to my apartment, could not go back to work, and should avoid calling anyone who did not already know I was safe.

“Anything else?” I asked. “Should I stop breathing near windows?”

Leo considered it.

I pointed at him. “That was sarcasm.”

“I know.”

Matteo entered behind us.

“Give us a minute.”

Leo disappeared toward the kitchen.

I turned on Matteo.

“You promised information.”

“And you’re getting it.”

“After you decide what I’m allowed to do.”

His jaw tightened.

“I am trying to keep you alive.”

“And I’m trying not to wake up three days from now and discover you’ve reorganized my entire life.”

“I have not reorganized anything.”

“You have guards at my mother’s building, men outside my apartment, a car following this house, and apparently a private relationship with every locked door in Massachusetts.”

His mouth almost moved.

“Do not smile.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were considering it.”

“That is not a crime.”

“Ask Detective Walsh.”

That did it.

He smiled.

Small. Brief. Gone almost immediately.

I hated that I noticed.

Then he crossed the room and placed a thin folder on the table between us.

“Read.”

I opened it.

There were photographs, company names, and copies of forms. Most of the documents were boring enough to make organized crime seem like an accounting disease.

One page had a familiar silver shield at the top.

ARGENT PROTECTIVE SERVICES.

I looked at him.

“Leo said Greco uses them.”

“He does.”

“Why do you have a contract with them?”

“Because one of my legal companies hired them six months ago for temporary warehouse coverage.”

I turned the page.

At the bottom was a signature.

Luca Conti.

My stomach tightened.

“He signed this.”

“He oversees vendor contracts.”

“So he hired the company connected to the shooter.”

“Possibly connected,” Matteo corrected.

I stared at him.

“You sound like Walsh.”

“She’s occasionally right.”

“That must hurt.”

“Deeply.”

I kept reading.

The next section was not about Argent.

It was about me.

My name.

My address.

The Velvet Room.

Harbor Pines.

My mother’s room number.

I stopped.

“What is this?”

Matteo’s expression changed.

“That is the security report Leo opened after your mother called me.”

I looked at the page again.

My birthday.

My employer.

My car make and plate.

My mother’s medical residence.

“You made a file on me.”

“Yes.”

The word was quiet.

My face burned.

“You said you were checking whether the threat was real.”

“I was.”

“You collected my life.”

“We collected what could help us identify where someone might reach you.”

“And where is this stored?”

He did not answer quickly enough.

My anger sharpened.

“Matteo.”

“On an internal server.”

“Who can access it?”

“Six people.”

I laughed, but there was nothing funny in it.

“You want to know how the man at Harbor Pines knew my mother’s date of birth?”

“I already asked the same question.”

The room went still.

“You think someone inside your organization leaked this.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I learned an hour ago.”

I closed the folder.

For years, every difficult thing in my life had arrived as a bill, a schedule, or a phone call I could eventually answer. This was different. Somebody had turned ordinary facts about me into coordinates, and I suddenly understood why privacy could feel less like a preference than a locked door.

“You promised.”

“I am telling you now.”

“After Leo told me where I can sleep, where I can work, and who I can call.”

Matteo put both hands on the table.

“You’re right.”

That stopped me.

I had expected resistance.

A justification.

A command.

Not that.

He looked at the folder.

“My decision to investigate you created a record that may have made you easier to target. I thought I was protecting you. I may have done the opposite.”

The anger did not vanish.

But it changed shape.

“Who has access?”

“Leo. Me. Luca. My attorney, Gabriel Shaw. My executive assistant, Nina Patel. And the head of corporate security.”

“Six.”

“Yes.”

“Any of them could have copied it.”

“Yes.”

“Do you trust all of them?”

“I did yesterday.”

That answer frightened me more than if he had said no.

I walked to the window.

Outside, Beacon Hill continued being expensive and calm.

“I want my phone.”

“No.”

I turned.

His expression was already braced for impact.

I crossed my arms.

“You just admitted your own system may be compromised, but my phone is the problem?”

“Your phone is one problem.”

“I need to call my boss.”

“Jimmy knows you’re safe.”

“My boss is not Jimmy. Colin is missing, remember?”

“Then your boss is currently unavailable.”

I stared at him.

He waited.

I hated when he had a point.

“Fine. I want to call Harbor Pines.”

“You can use the house line.”

“I also want a shower without somebody outside the bathroom.”

“No one is outside the bathroom.”

“I know. I’m expanding the list.”

His shoulders loosened a fraction.

“We can work with that.”

That evening, my mother sounded better.

She had spent the afternoon beating another resident at gin rummy and complaining that Matteo’s security men were making the lobby look “like a funeral for a senator.”

“They’re staying,” I told her.

“I know.”

“You sound suspiciously cooperative.”

“I’m old, not stupid.”

“You are fifty-eight.”

“Exactly. Ancient.”

“Mom.”

She was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “Did Matteo tell you about Sofia?”

“A little.”

“She was difficult.”

“I gathered.”

“She was also kind.”

I sat on the edge of the guest bed.

“Why did you call him instead of the police?”

“I did call the police. They told me a man asking questions wasn’t a crime.”

“That sounds like them.”

“Then I called the one person I knew would take it seriously.”

I looked toward the doorway.

Matteo was downstairs.

“You trusted him?”

“I trusted his mother. There is a difference.”

That sounded like a warning.

“Be careful with him, Mara.”

“I am.”

“I don’t mean physically.”

My throat tightened.

“Mom.”

“I know your voice.”

“You know nothing.”

“I knew you were lying about Derek for six months.”

“Derek cheated on me with a yoga instructor.”

“Yes. And you kept saying he was ‘just busy.’”

“That was different.”

“Of course.”

I ended the call five minutes later, irritated in the specific way only mothers could produce.

When I went downstairs, Matteo was cooking.

Actually cooking.

A pot simmered on the stove.

“What is happening?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“Dinner.”

“You have staff.”

“Not here.”

“You cook?”

“Do you?”

“I can make eggs.”

“That was not my question.”

“It is the answer you’re getting.”

He handed me a wooden spoon.

“Taste.”

I did.

Tomato, garlic, basil, something spicy.

“Annoyingly good.”

“I’ll survive the compliment.”

We ate at the small kitchen table.

No security briefings.

No gunshots.

For ten minutes, we talked about ordinary things.

He told me his mother used to throw wooden spoons when angry.

I told him mine once chased a doctor down a hallway because he discharged a patient without arranging transportation.

He asked what I had wanted to do before double shifts and care bills became my entire personality.

The question surprised me.

“Photography,” I said.

“You take pictures?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because lenses cost money and old people refuse to accept payment in artistic fulfillment.”

He did not offer to buy me a camera.

That mattered.

After dinner, Leo returned.

He placed a sealed evidence bag on the table.

Inside was a black plastic access card.

Jimmy’s missing spare.

“Where was it?” Matteo asked.

“In Luca’s car.”

The room changed.

I looked at Matteo.

His face became unreadable.

Leo continued.

“Luca says he has no idea how it got there.”

“Do you believe him?” I asked.

Matteo did not answer.

That was answer enough.

Then Leo added, “There’s more.”

Of course there was.

“The access card has Colin’s fingerprint on it.”

I stared at the bag.

Luca’s car.

Colin’s print.

Jimmy’s card.

One object tying together three people who should not have shared it.

Matteo pushed his chair back.

“Find Luca.”

Leo nodded.

I watched them exchange a look that contained years of trust I could not read.

Then Matteo turned to me.

“Stay here.”

My anger returned instantly.

“No.”

“Mara.”

“You said together.”

“This is family.”

“And my mother’s name is in the file your family leaked.”

Silence.

I stood.

“I’m not asking to come to some gangster meeting. I’m asking you not to lock me outside the truth.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

Finally, he nodded.

“Then you hear what we know.”

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It was a small victory.

But after twenty-four hours of other people deciding where I belonged, it felt enormous.