“On my way at eight. Coffee situation?”
‘Handle it.”
“Handled.”
I sat in the chair in the corner of my bedroom in the grey Paris morning and watched my wife sleep and read through the overnight intelligence on my phone and tried to keep my attention where it belonged, which was on the reports and not on the way the duvet rose and fell with her breathing, which was a task I managed approximately sixty percent of the time and considered this a professional low point.
The reports were thorough. Dane had been busy. Her father's movements in Rome were continuing, the Esposito connection deepening with each layer of the financial trail they peeled back. There was a property transfer; recently, two weeks before the wedding, a parcel of land outside Naples moved from a holding company register
