“My uncle,” I repeated.
Ettore was getting desperate if he was starting to hit the clubs.
“Yes. He’s here. Such a coincidence! We started to dance, and when we exchanged names, I couldn’t believe that his name was Fausti! He told me about your wife, and how devastated you are.” Her voice lowered. “He thought a call from an old friend might help. I wanted to say—” she blew out a heavy breath “—how sorry I am to hear it. She seemed nice enough—besides the punch.”
“What about my wife?” My voice came out quiet, and for someone who knew me well—my wife—deathly still. The scorching temperature of my skin was already at battle with the cold hand attempting to skitter up my neck.
“He told me she was murdered. That’s just horrible!”
“Tell me how.” My voice came out hard, hard enough to crack glass and use the jagged piece to kill the motherfucker who spoke that word in regards to my wife.
She hesitated. “We weren’t really gossiping—”
“How.”
This time her words sped up. “He said she was taken on the way home from dance practice. She was found at the bottom of the Hudson. She had rope around her neck. Strangled. Murdered. I’m sorry.”
“Brando?” Scarlett called. Before I could turn and get back into the room, she came bursting out of the door.
“It’s all right, baby. Go back to sleep.”
She shook her head and then came to me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “What’s going on? Brando? You’re trembling. Is it Eunice?”
“No, she came home hours ago.”
“Brando?” Soraya called.
“Give me a description of my uncle.”
Scarlett’s eyes flew up to mine. I nodded once.
“Uh, well, he’s really handsome. Built nice, but on the shorter side. Where did he go?” I heard her mutter. “I have his phone.”
“French or Italian? Answer one for French or two for Italian.”
“One.”
She became quiet. I had a feeling she had started to realize that something was off about this phone call. I had to call her name twice to get her to answer. Scarlett’s eyes narrowed and she backed away from me. I snatched her arm before she could retreat to our room. She let me hold her, but she refused to look at me.
“Are you at The Club?”
“Yes.”
“With friends?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure where they went.”
“Grab the closest man to you and have him take you to the bouncers. Tell them Brando Fausti said to bring you to Mac if he’s there. If not, tell the bouncer I said to bring you to a room where no one can find you. That’s all you have to say. I’ll have two men pick you up shortly—Machiavelli is the name they’ll give you. Otherwise, stay put.”
It was our code name. In case any of the women or children were ever approached, and the men were unknown—sometimes Donato sent for new men from Italy—they would know if it was a ploy or not. Not that we ever sent new men to pick up our wives or children, but it was an extra layer of security.
Scarlett started to tremble, but I couldn’t leave the woman there unprotected. Nemours would drug her up and then destroy her.
“He’s back,” Soraya said, and then I heard him laugh and the line went dead.
I dialed Donato’s number and gave him specifics. “Keep me informed,” I said and then hung up.
“Nemours or Ettore?” Scarlett asked, turning away from me.
