The Fever

The air conditioning in the Glass Box had died three hours ago, and the Hamptons were burning.

Luca Moretti sat on the white leather sofa, a bottle of warm Peroni sweating in his hand. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave the safehouse its name, the Atlantic Ocean looked like a sheet of hammered tin, reflecting the brutal, colorless glare of the sun. The thermostat on the wall read 102°F.

"You’re thinking too loud," Dante said.

Dante Vesperi was leaning against the kitchen island, stripping a Glock 19 with the casual efficiency of a man buttering toast. He was shirtless, his torso a roadmap of scars and ink, glistening with sweat. He looked like exactly what the papers called him: The Wolf of the Vesperi crew.

"It’s the heat," Luca lied. He took a sip of the beer. It tasted like metal. "And the cicadas. They haven't stopped screaming since we got here."

"They’re just bugs, Luca. Relax. The heat breaks tonight."

Luca watched Dante’s hands. Strong, steady, lethal. They had been best friends since kindergarten, since the day Dante punched a kid for stealing Luca’s lunch money. Dante was the muscle; Luca was the brain. Dante was the sword; Luca was the shield.

But Luca couldn't stop hearing Nonna’s voice, rasping from her deathbed fifteen years ago. She had gripped Luca’s hand, her milky eyes staring past him. *When the sky turns green, the Wolf will eat the Lamb.*

Luca was the Lamb. Everyone knew it. It was his nickname in the family—*L’Agnello*—because he hated blood and preferred negotiation to kneecapping.

Dante reassembled the slide of the gun with a sharp *clack*. He placed it on the counter and picked up his phone. A burner. A cheap flip phone they only used for "business."

Dante checked the screen, his eyebrows knitting together. He tapped out a quick reply, then immediately snapped the phone shut and slid it into the pocket of his cargo shorts. He glanced at Luca, his eyes shifting away a fraction of a second too fast.

"News from the city?" Luca asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Dante said. He flashed that charming, crooked grin that usually put Luca at ease. Today, it looked like a baring of teeth. "I’m gonna hit the water. Cool off. You coming?"

"No," Luca said, gripping the beer bottle until his knuckles turned white. "I’ll stay here. Keep watch."

"Suit yourself, *fratello*." Dante grabbed a towel and headed for the sliding glass doors. "Don't melt."

Luca watched him go. He watched his best friend descend the wooden stairs to the private beach below. He waited until Dante was a small figure diving into the surf before he set his beer down.

The silence in the house was heavy, pressurized. The prophecy whispered in the humid air. *The Wolf will eat the Lamb.*