“It’s the Fausti trademark to steal the heart from an enemy’s chest, correct?” Stone asked.
“It is,” I said, meeting his hard gaze. “Mostly when our grandfather was alive, and in Italy. It’s not done often.”
“A new trademark then? Slicing the jugular? Out with the old, in with the new, huh?” Stone smiled; his entire forehead crinkled with the action. Lines were already starting to form from the stress of the job.
That was when it hit me—the resemblance was found in the smile. Smug. Even Nick, the sheriff’s son and a good friend of mine before he was killed in a train accident, had the same arrogant smirk.
I had to resist the urge to call him a punk and wipe it off his face with my fist. My wife was a patient woman, she prayed for my soul each and every day, but I doubted all that was going to save me from her wrath if I were to be arrested again. Faithful woman or not, she had her limits.
“Depends,” I said, “on what we’re discussing.”
“It’s late,” Marinetti said. “We need to get these guys on ice and then start the real work.” He handed me his card. “We’ll be in touch.”
I figured as much. I had reason to kill these men. A feeling told me that Marinetti knew I hadn’t done it. This was Ettore’s way of playing the game. He wasn’t attempting to pin this on me. He was sending a message.
I know where you’ve been. I know what you’ve been doing. This is the old way. Let’s play.
My gut told me that he would leave them enough evidence to point to him, but they would never find him. He knew I had solid alibis, along with a lack of evidence. It didn’t mean that this wouldn’t shade the Faustis in a darker light though.
Our reputation preceded us. Some of the cops studied Romeo with suspicion in their eyes, even after he had earned trust, as we made our way back to our cars.
You didn’t do it. Your brother didn’t do it. But who did? Someone in your family wanted revenge. Same old ways.
Stone caught up to us in a few long strides. Romeo trembled next to me, vibrating with pent-up rage.
“Hold up,” Stone said. “I saw you drive up. I haven’t seen Scarlett in a long time, since I left home for college. Thought I’d say hello.” He whistled. “Me and a few of the guys got tickets to one of her shows a while back. The woman has a set of legs. I’m reminded of them every time I’m in Times Square and she dances across the screen.”
Romeo growled.
Stone looked at him and smiled. “I heard through the grapevine that Scarlett married one of the Faustis. Which one would that be?”
“I married her,” I said. He knew damn well which one. Up until some years ago, I was the only Fausti in our small town. “She’s my wife.”
“Congratulations. You married up.”
I took his meaning clear enough—you married better than you deserve. Another Stone trait. Sarcastic remarks. Though he was right. I did, and fuck him.
“Scarlett is tired,” Romeo said. “She has to get up early. Another time.”
“Nah, no time like the present,” Stone said, patting him on the shoulder. Romeo snapped at his hand with his teeth, and he smirked again, but he removed the hand. Romeo would have no issue tearing his finger off with his teeth.
Before I could respond, Stone headed toward the Range Rover. Romeo cursed under his breath, making remarks that would land him in jail if thedetective overheard.
Scarlett’s shape was clearly defined in the car. She and Guido were carrying on a conversation. As we approached, she narrowed her eyes.
Scott tapped on the window. Instead of rolling it down, she stepped out, and he hauled her off her feet, spinning her around.
He stopped when she gave him a slap to his shoulder. He looked up at her. She looked down at him, her face flushed. She didn’t bother looking at me.
“You remember me, pretty girl?”
“I’d remember a lot better on the ground. I have a fear of heights.”
He laughed at this, as if it were the funniest thing in the world, and set her down.
She fixed her sweater, pulling it down further over her black leggings. Her Italian-made tennis shoes glowed white in the night. She fiddled with the cross around her neck.
“Scott,” she said. “Scott Stone.”
