The morning air in Little Italy smells like it always did—espresso, fresh bread, and rain-soaked asphalt. I stand at the corner of Mulberry and Grand, hands in the pockets of my black coat, and breathe it in. Eight years. Eight years since I walked these streets as anyone other than a ghost.
I know Lorenzo's men are following me. Two cars back, trying to be discreet. They're good, but I'm better. I spotted them the moment I left the penthouse. Part of me wants to be annoyed—I don't need babysitters. But the practical part, the part Madame Chen beat into me during those brutal years in Thailand, understands. After the assassination attempt, Lorenzo isn't taking chances.
Fine. Let them watch. They'll see exactly what I want them to see.
I cross the street, weaving between yellow cabs and
