Chapter 9 · Black Gloves

The body's still warm when Vito drops the gloves on the table.

Black leather. Stitched seams. Same kind that left powder burns on my mother's coat fifteen years ago.

I can't breathe.

Locke's hand tightens on my waist. His thumb presses into my ribs hard enough to bruise. "We're leaving."

"Are we?" Vito's smile doesn't reach his eyes. He picks up one glove, turns it over. "Funny thing. Your girl's dad testified about these. Said the bomber wore them. Custom-made. Only twelve pairs in the city."

My pulse hammers in my ears.

Twelve pairs.

Locke's wearing black gloves right now.

"Forensics," Vito says, almost gentle. "That's what they call it, right? When they match the leather grain to a maker's records?"

The ballroom's too quiet. A hundred people pretending not to listen while they absolutely are.

Locke's jaw ticks. "You accusing me of something?"

"Just wondering." Vito drops the glove. It lands next to the champagne flute still stained with my blood. "How many pairs you own, cousin?"

I should say something. Do something. But my dad's voice loops in my head—the tape I found in his lockbox last week. Don't trust the man in black gloves.