I remember everything about that night in Trastevere.
The club where she worked.
The Don with his hands on her, forcing himself on her.
The way I intervened and paid her debts.
The conversation afterward in my hotel room.
The wine.
The way she spread those legs and let me drink from that well.
I could never forget a face.
Not like hers.
I told myself I would never see her again, that it was better that way.
She stares back at me now, and I watch recognition bloom across her face.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Then horror and accusation.
"You," she hisses, though her throat closes around the word and her voice hitches.
I don't even humor her with a response.
She'll get that soon enough—as soon as I can form a coherent thought.
Because my eyes drop to the child again, no more than five or six years old, which puts her at just the right age to have been conceived that night.
And suddenly, I know why she looks so familiar to me.
I can see it written all over her precious face.
She looks just like me.
Enzo steps forward and hands me a folded piece of paper.
I open it and read the message written in block letters.
We know your secrets. We can reach what's yours. You'll be dead by Christmas Eve.
I fold the note and slip it into my pocket.
My mind runs through possibilities.
Antonelli is the most likely suspect.
He's been testing my defenses for months, bribing my contacts and moving product through my territory without permission.
This is exactly his style, a message delivered and meant to intimidate me and cause me to fear him.
I look at Angelica again.
