“He does not like to be kept waiting, Agent Vargas,” the tall man said.

He did not use my undercover name.

He did not call me the maid.

The men behind him kept their submachine guns pointed at our chests.

Romano stood beside me, his coat soaked through, his shoulders slightly hunched.

He looked old in the harsh yellow light of the dock lamps.

But his eyes were steady.

He did not look at the phone.

He looked at Marcus.

Marcus was shivering, his leather jacket slick with water, his gun hand trembling as he pointed his weapon at Romano’s chest.

“Is this your federal help, Romano?” Marcus spat, his voice cracking. “A rat in your own kitchen?”

Romano did not answer him.

He took a slow step forward.

“Stay back!” Marcus yelled, his finger tightening on the trigger.

“You want to shoot me, Marcus?” Romano asked.

His voice was quiet, almost tired.

It carried easily over the sound of the waves hitting the concrete pilings below.

“You killed my brother,” Marcus said, his eyes wide, bloodshot. “You sent the hitters to his apartment.”