“You’re a woman in this family,” she whispered too. “You have all the power.” She hesitated, deliberating. “The man who gave you the drugs the night of the event in Venice…do you remember what he looks like?”
I gave her the description of the man in the cab, telling her I thought they were the same. “French accent. Goes by the moniker ON. That’s all I know.”
“Oh God.” It was something someone says right before they pass out. The blood drained from her face, and I grabbed her arm, worried she might hit the floor.
“Do you know him?”
It took a second for her eyes to focus. “Stay away from him,” she barely got out. “If he’s after you, let this family take care of you, Nazzareno or Renato, until—”
“What is all that whispering about?” Rosaria called from her seat. “Is the nosy little reporter too afraid to talk to me in private? Did you tell her I bite,Bella? It is the truth, I do, but not hard, unless it is requested.”
Scarlett lifted her dress some, turning around to face her. “I believe you’ve met your match. She’ll bite back.”
“Bene. I like it rough.” Rosaria tilted to her side some to see me. “Nazzareno did not mention what you wanted to speak to me about. I figure it is about tonight’s performance?”
“No,” I said. “It’s something I need to discuss with you in private.”
“Private?” She laughed. “You’re a journalist. Nothing I say to you will be private.”
“This is.”
“I highly doubt it.”
“Tigran Macaluso.”
The silence that stretched between us made Scarlett look between us. Then her eyes landed on the door, and a second later, a knock came at it before it opened a crack. Her husband looked at her, and it seemed like he called her to him without a word.
Before the door shut with a softclickand it was just the two of us, I caught Nazzareno’s eyes. He was staring behind Brando until the wooden divider shut in his face.
I couldn’t focus on that right now, though. I was in the room with a biter.
Rosaria Caffi was a beautiful woman. She was classically Italian, with olive skin and black hair. Her features were slim except for her lips. And I already knew the power she carried in her pipes. The opera world had dubbed her the songbird. She came from a long line of them.
Her marriage to Rocco Fausti was a mirror to the marriage that would happen between Nazzareno and Elettra Buratti.
“What is it that you want, Ava…Girardi, is it?”
The playful note to her tone had gone, and in its place, all seriousness.
“He’s dead,” I blurted.
“I know,” she said softly.
I studied her face carefully. She wasn’t giving anything away. Her tender tone was the only soft about her in that moment.
“Tigran is—was—my brother-in-law’s uncle. He was a good man. And he didn’t deserve what happened to him. I was with him moments before he died. I just want to know…did—do—you love him?”
She turned toward the mirror and looked herself in the eye. “Love is a complicated word in this world.” She sighed. “But did I have feelings for him?Sì.That is the truth.”
If that was the truth…a little hole in my heart closed. At least he had meant something to her. His death was not in vain.
I was willing to believe that.
“Thank you for your time,SignoraCaffi.” I went to leave when she stopped me.
I faced her because my back felt exposed. This woman might have the voice of a bird, but I could tell she had claws as sharp as the men.
“You did not fight your way into this family for that information. Why are you here?”
