For the rest of my break, I go upstairs to the room Chops Lollo stayed in during the parley, and stare at the massive wardrobe blocking the secret passage.
Again.
I've been coming here a lot since the parley.
"Alright, you stubborn bastard," I mutter under my breath as I approach it. "Let's see if today's any different."
I brace myself against the wardrobe and push with all my might, but it barely moves, just rocks dangerously, which is all I've been able to work up to. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my muscles strain as I try again, but the result is the same.
I've tried moving it many times before, but it's too damn heavy for one person, not to slide over, anyway. Topple, maybe. But you'd never get it upright again, not without a whole lot of help.
I was convinced for a while that the back must be false, or could be pushed aside. But no. I've tried; I've poked and banged the hell out of the whole thing. Nada.
My mind spins over the events of the parley again, searching for any clue I might have missed. But there's nothing. Every time, it just points to Russo. And every time, something feels off.
How thefuckdid Chops get in that passageway to get himself shot, if not past the wardrobe, and not via Russo's room?
I slump against the wall and slide down until I'm sitting, elbows on my knees, and let my mind return to Darian. What a mess. But it's better if I switch down to the Retreat. Won't be so fucking awkward, at least. Even Pedretti asked me what was going on between the two of us, acting so weird toward each other.
I just shrugged.
A bitter scoff escapes me now. Raffaello DeLuca, brought low by a goddamn broken heart. Pathetic. Everything in my life feels so empty now. My duty, my honor, my heart. All gone.
But I guess I still have a job to do.
So I get to my feet, ignore the ache in my chest, and get back to work.
CHAPTER 35
DARIAN
I hearRaffi's footsteps receding from the salon and I stay where I am, staring at the exquisite crystal decanter, until I can't hear them anymore. Usually I enjoy polishing; the repetitive motion is soothing to my soul. But not today. Not for some time, not since the parley.
With a heavy sigh, I resume polishing each facet of the decanter until it shines. If only polishing up the shattered remains of my relationship with Raffi could be so simple.
Every time I see him, I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him, to whisper that I never meant to hurt him. To beg his forgiveness.
Beg him to take me back.
I turn to stare at the empty doorway, wondering again how to fix this mess. How did we come to this? Well. I know the answer to that, and it was all my fault. If only I could find the courage to try and make things whole again. But every time I see him, I'm too afraid.
Afraid he'll be disgusted with me. Contemptuous.
No. There's no going back.
Mr. Pedretti is due to return today, and in the distance, I hear happy shouts and laughter that suggests he has arrived right on time. I put the decanter down, shut the cabinet carefully, listening for the velvet thud of the closure. I take one last look around the grand salon. Before the parley, I loved being in here. I want to remember it as a place of happiness.
And I wanted to leave it perfect, one last time.
I return to my room, take out a piece of paper and a pen, and sit down to write. When I'm done, I put the paper into an envelope and seal it.
On the front, I write one name:Mr. Julian Castellani.
Now I just have to wait long enough to be sure he's awake.
Late in the morning, as I hurry around a corner towards the foyer, I crash into a solid wall of muscle.
"Whoa, steady there." Familiar hands grip my arms, steadying me. "Jesus," he mutters, low and slightly raspy. "You almost gave me a heart attack."
