I’ve given up on Connor or Remo showing their faces. Maybe they were never here. Looking from windows at night, through hope-colored glasses… who knows what she saw?

They wouldn’t leave. That’s all I know.

I’m here to see who from the Colonia is in New York, so I can tell if they all took a trip to the Caribbean. They’re not showing up either.

Part of me waits for Massimo or one of his dumb goons to see me here. Are they too busy to notice? Did they take all their men down to the island? Or are they just pocketing the information until after Red Hook? The shadows get long, splitting the street into light and dark at the center line.

Nothing. Wrong time of day. Wrong place. Wrong something.

Circling the block’s a pain in the ass, but I do it. Back entrances have nothing happening. The corner store with the secret entrance in the back is locked up.

A sign. That’s all I need right now. One fucking Colonia goon coming in or out. I can extrapolate something from there.

The sun crosses below the buildings. The church and rectory go dark. None of the lights turn on.

What am I waiting for?

That’s my sign.

Fuck.

They’re gone.

I call Willa. No answer.

I call her boyfriend, Neil. No answer.

The resort’s phones are now cut off completely. The website’s down.

Maybe I’m what’s cut off. Maybe I’m down.

The phone’s already in my hand. It’s too much of a temptation.

I call Sarah. She picks up on the second ring.

“Dario?”

“You got the phone working.”

“It wasn’t hard.” There’s a pause. I hear her breathing, then the tick of her tongue on the roof of her mouth after she swallows. “When are you coming home?”

I don’t have a time in mind. I don’t even have a date.

“Someone will be there tomorrow. A woman. She’ll be alone with two big suitcases.”

“What’s in them?”

A cloud moves over the sun until the whole street is in shadow. I look at the church, hoping to see a car go into the lot or find Massimo at the window, thinking about the toll of leadership. But none of that happens.

“She’s going to make you travel documents. Even a driver’s license if you think you can handle it.”

“Where am I going?”

“Wherever you want.”

Again, I hear her breathe. A deep exhale as if she’s decided to sit before she falls.

“You’re not coming back.”

There’s no accusation in her tone. No hurt or brokenness. Just the facts, ma’am.

“I am.”

“I mean… not tonight.”

“I don’t want a fight.” It doesn’t matter what I want, but I tell her anyway.

“No fight.”