(Liam Romano's POV)
The plan was in motion. Every move Silas Morrow made, meticulously documented by Costa, was another piece of the puzzle I was assembling on the touchscreen in the apartment. I knew that at 7:05 PM every Wednesday, Morrow would leave his office through the back door, avoiding the press and annoyed associates. At 7:30 p.m., he was seated at his usual table at Il Cigno Nero, a restaurant
so exclusive it didn't even appear in the guidebooks. At 9:00 p.m., punctual as a Swiss watch, he called his daughter Clara at Boston
University. That ritual, that exposed vulnerability, was our master key.
But that night, the clock did not strike the expected hour.
It was 9:17 p.m. Costa, through the discreet earpiece I wore, whispered from his surveillance post across from the res
