Her necklace—Paris. Sal wanted out of the country, so she wasn’t in Paris. When I’d given her the necklace, she’d told me she would be happy staying on Staten Island as long as we were together. “She’s on Staten Island.”

His deep exhale made a whooshing sound across the line. “Okay, that’s good. It’ll help narrow the search. We already had guys watching his house, so we know he’s not there. I don’t know where he’s hiding, but we’ll find him.”

“Let me know if you hear anything else.”

“I’ll check back with you shortly.” The line went dead, and I stared at my phone in desperation. How the hell were we supposed to find her in a city of millions? “You hear the conversation?” I asked Michael.

“Yeah, you have any inkling where he might be hiding?”

“I can’t imagine he’d be holed up anywhere near our people.”

“Where else would he be on the island? You Italians practically run the place.”

What he said was true. Staten Island was predominantly populated with Italians—not necessarily mafia related, but Italians, nonetheless. We bred like rabbits. It was hard to run into someone who didn’t know you in a roundabout fashion.

Think, think, think.

Enzo said she didn’t have long. I need to figure out where she is and do it fast.

“He said she was shivering so bad she couldn’t talk,” I mused, thinking out loud. “So maybe she’s being kept in a fridge or freezer.”

“What, like at a grocer or a butcher?”

“Something like that, but who knows where.” I searched the street helplessly, frustration and despair attempting to put a stranglehold on me. “Fuck,” I hissed, trying to keep from crushing my phone in my clenched fist.

“Grocers tend to be larger operations—more employees and complications. My money is on a butcher. I say unless we have a better plan, we just start checking butchers. We can start on the north end of the Island and work our way south.”

“Works for me,” I muttered. “I have nothing better to suggest, and I don’t want to just sit on my ass doing nothing.”

“Let’s go. I’ll drive.” He turned and sped down the sidewalk, making me jog to catch up.

We drove from Manhattan through Jersey, then started at Ranchers Best Meat not far from the Bayonne Bridge. When that was a bust, we hit the Elm Park and Tompkinsville butchers without any luck.

“Google shows one in West Brighton, so we can hit that next. Head toward the zoo,” I instructed without taking my eyes from Google maps.

“That one’s closed.”

“Maybe that’s the perfect place to check then.”

“I can’t imagine Sal would have dared use the shop. It was bratva owned, located in the largest Russian community in all of Staten Island,” Michael explained.