“Dead! How is this possible?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he exhaled loudly and turned on his heel. “I need a drink. Come. Join me in my study and tell me everything.”
I followed him into a spacious office. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, flanked by towering bookshelves packed with leather-bound tomes. Exquisite oil paintings hung in the gaps between shelves, their gilded frames catching the dim candlelight. Small marble statues—each finely detailed—rested among the books, silent sentinels to whatever dealings occurred in this room.
The thick carpet beneath my boots muffled my steps as Montego strode toward a wooden dresser adorned with several liquor bottles and an array of crystal glasses.
“This calls for my best,” he muttered, uncorking a bottle of rich amber liquid.
He poured a generous amount into two tumblers and handed one to me.
“To Giovanni,” he said, raising his glass.
I mimicked the gesture. “To Giovanni.”
I knocked back the drink in one motion, feeling the searing heat blaze a path down my throat to my stomach.
Montego didn’t hesitate before refilling both glasses, his movementssteady despite the sadness of the news. He gestured toward a high-backed, overstuffed chair.
“Please, sit.”
I sank into the chair as Montego sat behind the massive desk, his drink still in hand.
“So, Giovanni was killed,” he mused, taking another sip. “Who told you this?”
“His son, Vincenzo,” I said, lifting my glass to my lips.
Montego scoffed and waved his fingers dismissively. “Oh, Vincenzo.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that, so I held my silence.
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it spin before asking, “Does he know who did it?”
“Yes. Vincenzo mentioned something about Costa’s men.”
Montego nodded. “Ah. I see. He’s referring to Raul Costa, isn’t he?”
“Yes, that’s the one,” I said, hoping the count would offer more insight.
Montego stroked his full beard, his expression thoughtful. “Costa is well-loved by society. His family is highly respected. When his father passed, Raul inherited the family business and its wealth and influence. But power does strange things to men. When people gain too much of it, they begin to believe the rules don’t apply to them.”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t know why Costa’s men would come after Giovanni. It makes little sense. Perhaps Costa has changed in my absence. Perhaps he has become a man who deals in blood and shadows.”
Montego’s face melted into sorrow, his fingers tightening around his glass. “It is regrettable to hear of Giovanni’s death. He was my friend. A scholar I admired.”
Then, bowing his head, he made the sign of the cross, the same gesture Cecilia had made.
A heavy silence settled between us.
Montego sighed. “So, now what? You can’t find Malik. Giovanni is dead—God rest his soul.”
He stared into his glass as if the liquor held the answers. “So much has happened here while I was away.”
My shoulder slumped slightly. “Raul Costa has something I need. But I have no idea where to find him.”
Montego’s expression brightened. He drummed his fingertips together,a glint of delight sparking in his eyes.
“Ah! I know exactly how I can help you, Roman.”
I sat forward. “You do?”
