Marco had carried it for three weeks.
He had carried it through the Friday report he’d submitted to Damian with the third photograph removed. Through two follow-up meetings about the Castellano threat in which the Edinburgh file had sat in his jacket pocket, and then in his desk drawer, and then in a folder on his personal drive marked with a label so neutral it was almost comic, *pending review,* as though it were a supplier contract and not a seven-year-old child.
He had told himself he was waiting for the right moment. He had told himself he needed to confirm the details further. He had told himself, on the days when he was being honest with himself, that he did not want to be in the room when Damian learned this, because Marco had spent his adult life adjacent to the consequences of
