As for Angelo and me? That was the very question I’d been asking myself all this time.
Alessandro Castellani was waiting for my response, watching me from the side of his eyes. “Why do you even care?” I finished, suspicion finally beginning to overtake my uncertainty. “What difference does it make to you what happens to Angelo and me?”
“I found them,” said a voice from the doorway, and both Alessandro and I started. It was Julian, a knowing smile on his lips. It was impossible to tell how long he’d been there, how much he’d heard. He was as silent as a stalking cat. “Angelo,” he said, “and Ciro. They were upstairs. They’re coming down now.”
I reached the foyer just as voices sounded overhead, and Alessandro, Julian and I waited at the bottom of the stairs as Angelo and Don Castellani appeared on the landing above. “…and of course I’ll let Don Morelli know what a great help you’ve been to us,” Angelo was saying. He saw me downstairs, and his eyes warmed. “But Bax and I have our own plans, and we’ve imposed on you long enough—on your city, and on your hospitality this evening.”
I happened to glance down at that moment, and noticed a few damp leaves stuck to Alessandro’s shoe. They seemed to be the same as those on the hedges around the fishpond. I looked from his shoes to his eyes.
He was staring back at me.
It seemed Julian had been right. Therehadbeen someone standing nearby in the gardens, listening in.
“Nonsense,” Castellani said as they came downstairs. “Come and have a nightcap before you go.”
“We really can’t,” Angelo said, and if I didn’t know better, I would have believed the regret in his voice. “We have a long journey tomorrow, and we need to make our plans. I’m only sorry we’re leaving you in the middle of such escalating violence.”
“The Bernardis bring this kind of thing on themselves,” Castellani said. “Maybe it’s infighting. Or it’s the cartels. Either way, not our problem.”
If only he’d been right. Twelve hours later, it was going to be very much his problem—and ours.
Chapter Sixteen
On the way back to our hotel, I gave Angelo the rundown on the story Julian had told me about the fish, Alessandro’s denial, and my conviction that he’d followed us into the gardens to eavesdrop.
“Which one of them did you believe about the fish?” Angelo asked. He’d listened intently, only asking clarifying questions here and there.
“Neither of them,” I said without hesitation, “but there were some truths mixed in with the lies. Do I think Alessandro poisoned the fish in the pond just to upset Julian? No. They hate each other, but not over fish. There’s something not right abouteitherof them, frankly.”
“That’s your professional opinion?” Angelo often teased me that way, and it made me smile then.
“It is, since you ask. But more importantly, because they’re sons from the same father—forged in the same Family crucible, shall we say—it makes me wonder about Ciro Castellani’s parenting style. Oh—do we need to check on Grumpo?” I asked as we came up near the freeway turnoff. “We can ask the driver to divert.”
Angelo gave a soft chuckle at the nickname. “I asked Castellani to show me the camera view. That’s what we were doing upstairs, while he begged for Morelli consideration. He badly wants an alliance with Luca. He even offered me a job. That’s what he’s been working up to.”
“What?”
Angelo laughed. “As his bodyguard. Can you imagine? Anyway, in return for his pitch, I got a real-time view of Greco scratching his balls and drinking beer.”
“You’re sure it was real-time?”
“Jacopo was right, Bax. Youarevery suspicious. Yes, I’m sure; I dialed in. Castellani has a dedicated phone line to the safe house. I let Greco know we’re heading home tomorrow, and that we’d pick him up midmorning.”
“Home,” I repeated. Somehow, New York didn’t feel like home these days. Home for me was, as cliché as it was, wherever Angelo was. “And when we get there?” I asked, thinking about Alessandro Castellani’s warning.
Angelo glanced at me. “When we get there? We turn Greco over to that silly little task force, he clears our names, and we get on with our lives. Together.”
“Together,” I repeated. “Yes. But…”
Angelo took my hand. “What is it?”
“What if turning in Greco doesn’twork? What if the task force just…refuses to clear us?”
The lights from outside slashed across Angelo’s beautiful face as the car drove on, almost like paparazzi flashbulbs going off. “Are you telling me, Baxter Flynn, that you doubt the integrity of your former colleagues?” He grinned. “I much prefer it when you’re naïvely optimistic.”
I snorted. “Don’t tell meyoutrust the justice system to do the right thing?”
He tugged me closer to him across the seat. “Where’s this coming from?” he murmured. “You didn’t let those fool Castellanis get into your head, did you?”
