He paused before he spoke again.
“You’re sure she’ll be with him?”
That got my attention.I turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.“That was a calculated extraction, Marcello.”
He held my stare.
“Flying into Malta.Pulling her out of Italy by sea.”I shook my head once.“He planned the whole thing.”
His brow lifted slightly.“You’re certain he took her out by boat?”
It sounded more like a question.
“If I were extracting someone and didn’t want my name tied to a single manifest,” I said, voice tightening, “that’s exactly how I’d do it.”
I glanced at him again.Caught the look.The raised brow that said ‘you’re thinking like him’.I didn’t have the luxury to deny it.Thinking like Machado was what would ultimately lead us to Tone.
Because I knew what I was looking at.Machado hadn’t gotten lucky.He’d thought this through.Every step.Every blind spot.Every gap in surveillance wide enough to slip through without leaving a trace.He executed a clean, efficient operation.
I exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.
“I hate to say it,” I muttered, “but he had a solid plan.”
Marcello huffed quietly.“High praise.”
“Doesn’t make him less of a bastard,” I added, eyes snapping back to the horizon.“Just makes him a dangerous one.”
And dangerous men didn’t make mistakes.Not unless someone forced them to.
“She’ll be here,”I muttered.Over and over again, into the void of silence surrounding me.
I didn’t know if anyone heard me.Nor did I care.But I kept saying, almost wishing her into existence.
Minutes passed.
Five.Ten.Then—the growl of an engine.Low.Controlled.Growing louder by the second.My head snapped toward the far end of the strip just as a line of black SUVs rolled into view—tight formation, deliberate spacing, tyres grinding over the tarmac.
They slowed as one, then fanned slightly, doors still shut, windows dark.
My pulse spiked.
“This is it,” Marcello muttered beside me.
I didn’t answer.
I was already moving forward in my crouch, shifting for a clearer line of sight, every muscle in my body coiling tight enough to snap.
The first door opened.
Then the next.
Men spilled out—armed, efficient, spreading into formation like they’d done this a hundred times before.Machado came prepared.
And then, the rear door of the centre car opened.
And my breath stopped.
Tone stepped out, unsteady for half a second before she caught herself.Wind caught her hair, dragging it across her face, obliterating my view.But I’d know her anywhere.I’d know her in a crowd.In the dark.In the middle of hell.