The phone vibrates against my desk at exactly midnight. I don't need to check the caller ID to know who it is—Castellano always did have a flair for the dramatic, choosing the witching hour for his power plays like some villain from a cheap thriller.
I let it ring three times. An old trick my father taught me: never seem too eager, even when you're expecting the call. Especially when you're expecting the call.
"Moretti," I answer, my voice flat.
"Lorenzo." Castellano's voice drips with false pleasantry, the kind that makes my trigger finger itch. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything... intimate."
I lean back in my chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling where I know Serafina is sleeping one floor above. Or pretending to sleep. With her, I can never quite tell anymore.
"Get to the point,
