There was a pecking order when the king died—either the first-born son, or the son the leader had chosen to rule, took over. Both of these honors had been bestowed upon Luca before he killed the sheriff’s wife and unborn child.
Ettore was up next to lead, though Marzio had never appointed him in official terms. That was how Lothario landed the high rank in power. But there was a catch—someone else in the family could challenge him for the position. If he lost, the kingdom went to another vein in the family’s body.
“You’re playing this dumb, man,” Mick said, anger in his voice. “Let Rocco’s guys hide in the shadows, like Ettore is.”
“I need to call Scarlett.” I glanced at the clock.
In Italy it was five in the morning. She wouldn’t be up yet, but I needed to talk to her. I didn’t need another Rocco situation—in case Ettore decided to tell Nemours that I was with another woman to mess with her emotions.
“How is she feeling?” Emory said, throwing a card in the pile.
Mitch peeked over his shoulder to see his hand.Fucking cheat.
“She told Violet she has fever,” Mick said, reading the lost look on my face.
I dialed her number, leaving them for the privacy of the front room, taking a seat on the sofa. I lifted a bit, while it rang, removing the gun and setting it on my leg. I called her twice before she finally picked up. That alarmed me. It was rare that she didn’t answer.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice groggy with sleep. “I’ve got a touch of the flu. And before you ask to speak to him, Donato called Uncle Tito. He’s here, along with Aunt Lola. She fed me pasta in bed.”
“Put Tito on the phone.”
“Nephew!” he shouted, like he was trying to talk over the ocean. “How are you?”
“My wife,” I said.
“Ah.” He laughed. “Fine. Fine. The good doctor is here for her. Aren’t I,piccola colomba?” I heard Scarlett laugh. “She has a touch of the flu. I tell her, she is overworking herself. Her doctor,me, has prescribed moresiestas, but she will not listen. Riccardo Bacchi is en route to use her personal dance studio for practice. She will not even take a day to rest!”
No, she wouldn’t. I’d seen her practice before when she was sick. Especially this close to a performance, there was no way she would rest. As amazing as she was, she still tried to outdo herself.
“Now,” he said, more quietly. “I have stepped out of the room. How is the, ah, situation?”
“He’s here, as suspected.”
“Ah, yes, he has been known to play cat and mouse. Be careful, nephew. He will take what he thinks is yours before he attempts to take you.” He cleared his throat. “Other business. Can you speak to your wife? Persuade her to take rest?”
I sat up, snatching the gun before it hit the floor.
“No, no, no,” he said hastily, after I demanded to know what was wrong. “The child looks so tired. She is exhausted. I suspect this has something to do with her catching the flu. She has worn herself down, leaving her vulnerable to sickness. All she does is dance. But there is no need for you to rush home, though I know it is natural for a man to want to be close to his family when trouble arises.”
“Put her on the phone,” I said.
“Brando?”
“I’m here, baby. Tito says you have the flu.”
She giggled.Giggled.It did things to my heart. Listening in even closer, she didn’t sound stuffy or like she had a cough, just like Tito had said, exhausted.
“I told you that.” She sighed. “I’ll be fine.”
“You sound tired.”
The line went quiet. “I am,” she finally whispered.
It took a lot for her to admit that. I raged against emotions. She raged against what she felt was defeat. No matter what dancers looked like, they were fierce athletes. They danced through the pain, through the very suffering that made them look so graceful.
“Tito is going to talk to Riccardo. You’re not getting out of bed today.”
I braced for the fight, for the insolence that usually followed a ruling that she refused. Another shot of alarm forced acid to the back of my throat when she agreed. Then I heard the rustle of bed sheets, her sinking further underneath them. Her teeth chattered slightly.
