Chapter 6 - The Lie We Chose to Tell

The fleet car had not been stolen.

At least, not in the ordinary sense.

By noon, Leo had a timeline spread across the safe-house dining table. The Conti Hospitality sedan had been signed out electronically at 5:38 that morning, driven from a South Boston garage, and returned forty-seven minutes later.

The authorization came from Luca’s office.

Matteo stood at the head of the table with both hands braced against the wood.

“Who used the credential?”

“Luca’s assistant says she processed the request yesterday,” Leo said. “She was told the car needed to go to a repair shop before seven.”

“By Luca?”

“She says by email.”

“Can she prove it?”

“The message came from his account.”

I sat across from them, trying to follow a world where people could own twelve companies and still communicate with the same bad habits as everyone else.

“Could someone have used his account?”

“Yes,” Leo said.

Matteo looked at me.

“You’re going to say it.”

“I am.”

He sighed.

“Evidence is not proof.”

“Walsh is ruining us both.”

A knock sounded at the front door.

Leo checked the camera before opening it.

Detective Erin Walsh walked in carrying a paper bag and two coffees.

She looked at the dining table.

“Good. You’re all already miserable.”

“Always nice to see you,” Matteo said.

“I brought pastries.”

“For us?”

“For Mara.”

I accepted the bag.

“See? She understands witness care.”

Walsh sat beside me.

Leo gave her the fleet records.

She read in silence.

Matteo did not hover.

That was probably the closest thing they had to friendship.

After several minutes, Walsh tapped one line.

“This is enough for me to ask questions. Not enough for a warrant on Luca.”

“He’ll lie,” Matteo said.

“Then let him. Lying is useful when I can prove it.”

I bit into a croissant.

“What if we don’t ask him anything?”

Three people looked at me.

I swallowed.

“I’m not suggesting we torture him with baked goods.”

Walsh’s eyes narrowed.

“What are you suggesting?”

I pointed at the list of six people who had accessed my security file.

“Whoever leaked my information also knew where to send a company car this morning.”

“Yes,” Leo said.

“If you confront all six, they all know you’re looking.”

“They already know,” Matteo said.

“Then give them something harmless to leak.”

Walsh leaned back.

I continued.

“Not a real address. Not my mother. Nothing that puts anyone in danger. Just different information.”

Matteo’s expression sharpened.

I could practically see the idea arranging itself behind his eyes.

“No,” Walsh said immediately.

I blinked.

“No?”

“No private sting operation run by a nightclub waitress and a man I’ve been trying to indict since the Obama administration.”

Matteo looked offended.

“Eight years.”

“Feels longer.”

I raised both hands.

“Fine. You run it.”

Walsh stared at me.

Then at the access list.

Then back at me.

“Damn it.”

Leo almost smiled.

Two hours later, we had a plan that Walsh insisted on calling a controlled information test and I insisted on calling six different lies.

Nobody would be moved.

No civilian would be placed at risk.

Police would watch three public locations, while Leo monitored three more through legal security cameras already owned by Conti companies.

Each person with access to my file would be told a different version of the same story: that Ellen Bennett would be transferred the following afternoon for security reasons.

Luca received North Shore Rehabilitation.

Gabriel Shaw, Matteo’s attorney, received a private clinic in Brookline.

Nina Patel received a facility in Cambridge.

The remaining three received different locations.

Then we waited.

Waiting, I discovered, was worse than running.

There was nothing to do with fear when nobody was shooting at you.

I paced.

Made coffee.

Forgot the coffee.

Checked the front window every four minutes.

Matteo finally took the mug out of my hand.

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m calm.”

“You have opened the refrigerator six times.”

“I might become hungry.”

“You didn’t take anything.”

“I’m considering my options.”

He leaned against the counter.

“You do that when you’re scared.”

I looked at him.

“You have known me for less than two days.”

“You reorganize objects.”

I glanced at the counter.

Three sugar packets sat in a perfect row.

I pushed them apart.

“You saw nothing.”

His smile was quiet.

The waiting stretched into evening.

Walsh left to coordinate with her team.

Leo took calls upstairs.

For the first time since the shooting, Matteo and I were alone without an immediate problem demanding our attention.

That should have been easier.

It was not.

I stood by the kitchen sink.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You usually do without permission.”

“Why did you let me talk to Walsh?”

He frowned.

“Because you’re a witness.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

I turned toward him.

“Men like you don’t exactly have a reputation for encouraging police interviews.”

He was silent for a moment.

Then he sat at the table.

“Men like me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

He looked down at his hands.

“My father believed control solved everything. Control the room. Control the business. Control the people who might become problems.”

“And you don’t?”

“I learned it creates different problems.”

“That sounded suspiciously self-aware.”

“Don’t spread it around.”

I sat across from him.

“What kind of problems?”

His jaw shifted.

“My mother stopped telling my father when she was afraid. Because every fear became another guard, another locked door, another person followed home.”

I thought about my own list of rules.

No paying my bills.

No moving me without asking.

No touching me after I said no.

“You’re trying not to become him.”

“Yes.”

The answer came without drama.

“Are you succeeding?”

“Some days.”

I appreciated that more than a lie.

His phone rang.

We both froze.

He answered.

“Leo.”

A pause.

Matteo’s face changed.

“Which location?”

Another pause.

“Understood.”

He ended the call.

My mouth was dry.

“Well?”

“North Shore.”

Luca’s lie.

I felt the answer before he said it.

“A car associated with Greco’s restaurant group circled the building twice,” Matteo said. “Then parked across the street for eleven minutes.”

“Police see it?”

“Yes.”

My stomach sank.

“That means Luca leaked it.”

“It means information given only to Luca reached someone connected to Greco.”

I stared at him.

He was still protecting the distinction.

Even now.

I respected him for it.

I hated that too.

“Call him.”

Matteo did.

Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Nothing.

Leo came downstairs.

“His condo is empty. Office too.”

Matteo’s face stayed still.

But I saw his right hand close once.

Open.

Close again.

The only crack.

I moved before thinking.

Then stopped one step from him.

“Can I?”

His eyes lifted.

He understood.

He nodded.

I put my arms around him.

For several seconds, he did not move.

Then one hand settled carefully against my back.

Not possessive.

Not pulling.

Just there.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

His breath moved against my hair.

“He was my brother in every way that mattered.”

“I know.”

He let go first.

I stepped back.

The kitchen suddenly felt too small.

Matteo looked at me in a way he had not before.

Not as a witness.

Not as a responsibility.

As a woman.

My pulse changed.

He took one step backward.

“Mara.”

“What?”

“This is not a good time.”

My pride flared automatically.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“No.”

His mouth almost curved.

“I’m reminding myself.”

That stole my answer.

He looked away.

“You depend on me for safety right now. I will not confuse that with something else.”

Heat climbed my face.

“That is annoyingly decent.”

“I have occasional lapses.”

I should have left it there.

Instead, I crossed the space between us.

“Then let me make one thing very clear.”

He looked at me.

I touched his shirt with two fingers.

Not a poke this time.

A question.

“I’m not kissing you because you have guards.”

His eyes darkened.

“I know.”

“I’m not kissing you because my mother likes you.”

“She barely tolerates me.”

“Good.”

Then I kissed him.

It was brief.

Warm.

Controlled until it wasn’t.

His hand came to my waist and stopped there, waiting.

I leaned closer.

Permission.

He kissed me back.

For three impossible seconds, there were no guns, no Greco, no missing cousin.

Then Leo cleared his throat from the doorway.

I stepped away so fast I nearly hit the counter.

Matteo closed his eyes.

Leo looked almost apologetic.

Almost.

“Sorry.”

“You are not,” Matteo said.

“No.”

I covered my face.

“What?”

Leo’s amusement vanished.

“We found Luca’s car at Logan.”

Matteo straightened.

“Airport?”

“Parking garage. Passport is gone.”

“Flight records?”

“Walsh is checking.”

I lowered my hands.

“So he ran.”

Leo shook his head.

“Maybe.”

“What else?”

“There was blood on the driver’s seat.”

The warmth from the kiss disappeared.

Matteo looked at Leo.

“His?”

“We don’t know.”

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Just when betrayal had started to look simple, somebody had made it complicated again.

And this time, Matteo looked afraid for the cousin he had every reason to hate.