Chapter 24: HALF TRUTHS

Chapter 24: HALF TRUTHS
Morning came with the kind of slow, gray light that made the whole city look hungover. I’d been awake since before dawn, because apparently my brain now thought 3 a.m. penthouse whisper-fights were a new kind of alarm clock.

Coffee first. Questions later.

Steve was already in the kitchen when I padded in, barefoot, hoodie pulled over the tank top I’d slept in. He looked like he’d been up for hours—hair damp from a shower, black sweater, dark trousers, and that usual air of someone who’d already made three enemies cry before breakfast.

I leaned against the counter, watching him pour coffee like it was an Olympic event. “You and Dante were having an interesting conversation at three in the morning.”

He didn’t look up. “We were discussing logistics.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sounded less like logistics and more like an argument about me.”

He slid a mug toward me without making eye contact. “Then you misheard.”

“Oh, right. The walls are liars now. That makes sense.”

Steve finally glanced up, the corner of his mouth twitching in that way that said he was about to dismiss me entirely. “It’s not something you need to worry about.”

There it was. The line. His favorite one. I didn’t know if he practiced it in the mirror, but the man could shut down curiosity with just those words. I sipped my coffee instead of pressing further, but my eyes stayed on him. He knew I wasn’t buying it. I knew he wasn’t going to care.

By the time Dante appeared, dressed like a man who could broker peace treaties and commit espionage in the same hour, Steve had already switched topics to something about a midday board call. The conversation was over. Or at least, the part they were willing to let me hear.

Fine. If I couldn’t get answers, I could at least get out some of the restless tension that had been coiling in my muscles since the card, the knock, the damn voice on that phone.

The penthouse gym looked like it belonged to someone who could buy an actual professional sports facility just for the aesthetic. Wall-to-wall mirrors, gleaming equipment, a sparring mat that made me want to hit something just on principle.

I started with a warm-up, shadowboxing in front of the mirror until my heartbeat settled into a rhythm. Dante watched from the doorway, arms folded.

“You’re sloppy today,” he said, like a greeting.

“I’m not here to impress you.”

“That’s good. You’re not.”

I gritted my teeth and kept moving. The man had a way of getting under my skin without even changing his tone.

After a few minutes, he stepped in, holding out a pair of padded gloves. “Come on.”

We went a few rounds—him testing my reflexes, me trying not to think about how easy it seemed for him to deflect every strike. It was infuriating, and a little addictive, how he could push me right to the edge without ever breaking a sweat.

“You overcommit,” he said, catching my wrist mid-swing.

“You talk too much,” I shot back, twisting free.

“Talking’s a distraction. So is anger.”

“Guess I’m a multi-tasker.”

By the time I was drenched in sweat and he still looked like he could walk into a boardroom, my frustration had shifted from Steve to Dante and back again in some endless loop.

I was stretching when my phone buzzed on the bench. Unknown number. I picked it up.

“Laura?”

The voice was familiar, low but warm. Mark O’Brien.

“Detective,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the hem of my hoodie. “Calling to check if I’m still breathing?”

“Something like that. I’ve got an update.”

I could feel Dante’s attention shift toward me without him even saying anything. “Go on.”

“One of Freeman’s minor partners... David Keating... you know him?”

“No.”

“Well, he got a letter last night. Hand-delivered. No envelope.”

That crawled under my skin in the exact same way the playing card had. “What did it say?”

“I’d rather show you. Sending it over now.”

I heard a faint clicking as he did… whatever cops do when they send things that are probably supposed to stay off the record. My phone pinged with a new message.

I opened it, already expecting the unease.

Typed words. Sharp, clean. “Your time’s coming.” No signature, no flourish.

Just like the back of that card.

The exact same typewritten font.