Alessandro says nothing. I’ve never seen him speechless before, so I jump in with the first thing I can think of that people usually say in these circumstances. “I’d love to!”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I can see that immediately, based on the way Alessandro closes his eyes and gives a small sigh.
“Wonderful,” his mother drawls. “I’ll look forward to getting to know youmuchbetter.”
Alessandro’s jaw makes an audible click. “I never asked you to—”
“Imustgo, my darling. But I’ll see you both tonight, hm?” She adds something in Italian and gives him a wink.
I watch her go, but when I turn back to Alessandro, I’m struck by his expression. “What did she say? At the end.”
To my astonishment, he seems to be blushing. “She…uh…”
He’s saved by the entrance of Wilson.
“Excuse me, sir,” the butler says to Alessandro, “but I’m afraid the Federal Bureau of Investigation has made an unannounced visit.”
CHAPTER30
SANDRO
My mother isthe most exasperating woman in the world, but this FBI agent, Monica Anderson, might run a close second.
As soon as Wilson informed me, I turned to Teddy, but he was already backing up the stairs. “I should stay upstairs,” he said. “I should—I should stay out of the way.”
He’s a quick study. I gave him a nod, grateful that I didn’t have to waste time explaining things to him, and then I phoned down to the guard station at the gates.
“Your mother just left,” the guard tells me, “and we’re keeping the Feds at bay.”
“Do they have a warrant?” There were two of them, the guard had said.
“No, Boss. Just a courtesy call, they keep saying. You want me to tell them to fuck off?”
I do. But I’m also curious. “Send them up,” I tell the guard. “But make sure they’re clean. And for Christ’s sake, next time my mother arrives, you will announce her before letting her drive straight through.”
“Yes, Boss. Sorry, Boss.”
It’s futile, I know. My mother cannot be denied anything. She’ll be asking me about the FBI visit tonight, too, but it’s in my interest to play ball with them for now.
Or that was what I thought, until I show the two of them into the grand salon. Both refused coffee, water, refreshments. “This isn’t a social call,” Ms. Anderson says coldly.
“No? I was under the impression there was some courtesy you wished to extend.”
She gives a derisive, soft snort. “If it were up to me, we wouldn’t be here at all.”
Her disgust for me oozes from her. I don’t think it’s just my face. She has the same attitude looking around the room, as her eyes fall on antique porcelain, statues, vases. I know this kind of law enforcement officer. They have a genuine distaste for people like me, a moral superiority that makes them convinced they would never break the law, not under any circumstance.
How wrong they are. But if she doesn’t know it yet, it’s not up to me to tell her.
“Well, then,” I say, taking a seat, and gesturing to the sofa opposite. “Tell me what you want so you can leave.”
The man has said nothing so far, but his glare is even more hostile than the woman’s. Barbarian and the Ice Maiden, the nicknames my men made up, are apt. He’s gruff, heavy browed, awkward in his movements, a caveman slumped on a Louis XVI-replica sofa.
And he hates me, I see that. The woman may dislike me, but Special Agent Craig Barbieri’s feelings run even deeper. I give him a smile as he glowers at me. “Well? What is it?”
“We’ve come to ask your permission to exhume Ciro Castellani’s body,” Ms. Anderson says. “The FBI would like to perform an autopsy.”
I laugh. I cannot help myself. “No.”
