Dante
The message arrived while I was pouring whiskey into my coffee, the amber liquid swirling like it might wash away the morning's grit. The kitchen smelled of stale coffee grounds and the faint burn of alcohol, the kind of scent that bored you when sleep refused to come.
Nico pushed through the door without knocking, his face pale under the weak fluorescent light overhead.
"Marcini's wife and kid are gone."
I stared at him, the words sinking in like stones dropped into still water. My grip tightened on the mug until the ceramic groaned and split, hot coffee scalding my wrist in a slow, painful trickle. I didn't flinch. The burn felt distant, almost welcome, as if pain might drift through the fog that had settled over everything since the last lead dried up. Someone wanted me to know.
