THE LAST MEAL ON ALASKAN WAY

I packed in under four minutes because Dante gave me five.

“Two shirts, jeans, work shoes, charger, toothbrush,” I muttered. “If this is a kidnapping, it is aggressively organized.”

“It is not a kidnapping.”

“You have armed men in my hallway.”

“They are protection.”

“Kidnappers always call it something nicer.”

Dante stood beside my kitchen counter while I shoved clothes into a grocery tote. He did not touch anything. That restraint bothered me more than if he had taken over.

“I can call the police,” I said.

“You can.”

I stopped. “That easy?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to tell me the police are useless?”

“No. I am going to tell you a detective can file a report about a photograph and a threat. He cannot know which officer in his building may already be taking money from the people who attacked me.”

“That sounds like something a criminal says.”

“It is also something a realist says.”

I zipped the tote. “And which one are you?”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Both.”

At least he did not lie.

Mrs. Chen opened her door when I stepped into the hall. She was seventy-two, five feet tall, and afraid of nothing except rising rent.

She looked at Dante, then at the men behind him.

“You the problem?” she asked.

Dante blinked once. “Possibly.”

“You fix it.”

“I intend to.”

She pointed at him. “And she needs groceries.”

“Mrs. Chen.”

“I saw your refrigerator last week.”

Dante looked at me.

I wanted the carpet to open.

“Thank you,” he told her.

“I hate you both,” I said.

Outside, the street was black cars and black coats from one end of the block to the other. Neighbors watched through curtains. Someone on the third floor was filming.

Dante guided me toward the lead SUV without touching me.

“Why three hundred?” I asked.

“Because the person who attacked me believes I am isolated.”

“And you wanted to prove otherwise.”

“Yes.”

“That seems subtle.”

“I was not aiming for subtle.”

Inside the SUV, a woman in a navy suit handed me a phone sealed in plastic.

“I’m Sofia Marin,” she said. “Security operations.”

“Do all mafia bosses have a security operations department?”

Dante sat opposite me.

Sofia did not smile. “Only the organized ones.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

The car moved.

Seattle slid past in wet streaks of light. I watched my block disappear behind us and tried not to panic.

Sofia placed three printed photographs on the console.

The first showed Dante stumbling into the ferry terminal alley.

The second showed me crouched beside him with the paper bag.

The third showed a man under an awning across the street, face half hidden beneath a baseball cap.

“Do you recognize him?” she asked.

“No.”

“Look carefully.”

I did.

Medium height. Narrow shoulders. Dark coat. A silver ring on his right hand.

Something bothered me.

“I’ve seen the ring.”

Dante leaned forward.

“Where?”

“At work, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Think.”

I shut my eyes.

Floor twelve. Executive offices. A man waiting near the elevators while I emptied trash. He had been wearing gloves except on one hand. Silver ring with a black stone.

“Last week,” I said. “At Halcyon Tower. Twelfth floor.”

“What company?” Sofia asked.

“Rainer Logistics.”

The silence in the SUV changed.

Dante’s jaw tightened.

“What?”

He looked toward Sofia.

She answered. “Rainer Logistics leases storage from Moretti Maritime.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It is worse than bad,” Dante said. “One of the men who disappeared after the ambush managed that account.”

I stared at the photograph again.

“So this guy was at my job before I ever met you.”

“Yes.”

My skin went cold.

“Then maybe this isn’t about the meal.”

“No,” Dante said quietly. “Maybe it started before that.”

The SUV turned into an underground garage beneath a glass residential tower overlooking Elliott Bay. Security gates closed behind us one by one.

Upstairs, the safe apartment looked like a magazine spread nobody actually lived in. White stone. Gray furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A kitchen larger than my entire apartment.

I dropped my grocery tote by the couch.

“I’m not staying here forever.”

“No one asked you to.”

“I have a job.”

“We will deal with it.”

“I deal with my job.”

Dante’s expression sharpened. “Mara, someone entered your workplace asking for you by name.”

“And I need that paycheck.”

He seemed about to say something, then stopped.

I knew what he had almost offered.

Money.

I raised a finger. “Do not.”