Dante made the call from the study, with the door locked and the windows dark. I stood beside his desk, close enough to hear the faint buzz of the encrypted line, far enough to stay out of the conversation if I needed to. My heart was a slow, insistent drum against my ribs. We were baiting a man who had eluded every intelligence agency in Europe for fifteen years, and we were doing it with a lie that could unravel at any moment.
The line clicked. A voice—not Vane's, one of his handlers—answered in French. Dante's response was calm, unhurried, the voice of a don who was accustomed to being listened to.
"I need to speak to Aldric Vane. Tell him it's about Lena Vasquez."
Silence. Then a different voice, older, tired, unmistakable.
"Dante Marchetti. This is an unexpected call."
"I imagine
