Nora stared at the screen until it stopped ringing.

Roman saw her face.

"Who was it?"

She turned the phone so he could read the name.

He was quiet for a moment.

"How does he have your number?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know he was trying to reach you?

Before tonight?"

"No." She set the phone face-down.

"I didn't know he existed until forty minutes ago."

Roman stood.

He moved to the window where he'd stood before, hands in his pockets, looking out at the grounds.

The lights along the drive were still on.

Helena's car had already gone.

"If what Cesare said is true," Roman said, "and your mother never told you — then Marchetti may have known about you for years without you knowing about him."

"That's a comfortable thought."

"It's a relevant one.

He called the moment Helena left this house.

Someone told him what was happening here tonight."

Nora looked at the phone.

"You think he has someone inside."

"I think a man who has run a rival operation for thirty years doesn't make phone calls by coincidence." He turned from the window.

"I'm not saying you're in danger.

I'm saying we need to understand what he wants before you decide whether to call him back."

"I wasn't going to call him back."

"You might want to.

He may be the only person alive who can tell you the truth about your mother."

Nora was quiet.

Sophie had shifted again on the sofa, one arm reaching out in her sleep, small fingers finding the edge of Roman's jacket and holding on.

"She kept things from me," Nora said.

"My mother.

I always knew there were things she didn't say.

I thought it was grief.

I thought it was just the way she was." A pause.

"She used to look at me sometimes like she was apologizing for something."

"Maybe she was."

"Maybe." Nora picked up the phone.

She looked at the name on the screen.

"If I call him back — what does that mean for you?

For your family?

For whatever is already complicated enough tonight?"

"It means I want to be in the room when you do it."

She looked up.

"He's not your enemy until we know he is," Roman said.

"And you're not his instrument just because Helena was afraid you might be." He crossed back to the sofa and sat down.

"Call him.

Put it on speaker.

We'll hear what he says."

Nora held the phone for a long moment.

Then she called back.

It rang once.

"Nora." The voice was older, accented, careful.

Not warm, exactly, but not cold.

The voice of a man who had rehearsed this moment and was now discovering that rehearsal had not been sufficient.

"Thank you for calling back."

"I almost didn't."

"I know.

I wouldn't have either." A pause.

"I imagine tonight has been a great deal to absorb."

"You could say that."

"I've known about you for eleven years," Enzo said.

"Your mother wrote to me when she was ill.

She didn't want to, I think.

But she wanted someone to know.

She sent me a photograph of you.

She asked me not to contact you unless you were ever in serious danger."

"And am I?"

A long pause.

"Not from me.

But there are people within my own organization who have known about you longer than I have.

People who have their own ideas about what a Marchetti daughter connected to the D'Angelo family might be worth." His voice tightened slightly.

"I'm calling because those people have become active tonight.

Someone told them what happened at the gala.

They will see an opportunity in the chaos."

Roman leaned forward.

"This is Roman D'Angelo."

A silence.

"I know who you are."

"Then you know I need names."

"Yes," Enzo said.

"I expect you do." Another pause.

"I'll send them.

But I need something in return.

Not money.

Not territory.

I need to meet her.

Once.

In a place of her choosing, with whatever security she requires." His voice shifted — just slightly, just enough.

"I'm sixty-four years old.

I have made a great many decisions I cannot undo.

I would like to see my daughter's face before I run out of time to do it."

Nora's hand was tight around the phone.

"I'll think about it," she said.

"That's more than I deserve," Enzo said quietly.

"The names will arrive within the hour."

The call ended.

The study was very still.

Sophie slept on.

The fire that had been lit earlier had burned down to embers, and the room was cooler now, the kind of cool that settles in when a long night starts to turn toward morning.

"Well," Nora said.

"Well," Roman agreed.

She looked at him.

"Are you going to tell me what to do?"

"No."

"Good." She set the phone down.

"Because I don't know yet."

Roman's own phone buzzed.

He read the message.

His expression shifted — not alarm, but the focused stillness that meant something required immediate attention.

"The names," he said.

"They're already here."

He read the first one.

Then he looked up at Nora with something she hadn't seen on his face all evening.

Surprise.

"What?" she said.

"The first name on this list," he said slowly, "is Marco."