But Giovanni has other plans. “You got your phone?” he asks.
“I’m going to leave it here,” I say.
“Why?” he demands.
“Because,” I begin. “I don’t want anyone to know where I’m going.”
“You’re not dropping off the face of the earth,” Giovanni says with a laugh. “Bring your phone. A kid like you would be lost without it.”
I sneer at him, half charmed, half disgusted by his teasing. “I’m not that young.”
“I can see,” he remarks, waiting for me to go back and get the device.
I don’t want to give him the pleasure, but he’s right. I’d rather have it. So I march back to the table, pick it up, and shove itin my pocket. I return to the living room once again, presenting myself to my captor.
He reaches for the suitcase, taking it from my hand as he walks toward the door. I’ve got no choice but to follow him, leaving the safe haven of my little apartment far behind. We barely speak on the way over to Francisco’s house. I know Giovanni likes me, or at least he doesn’t have a strong opinion either way. But I also get the sense that he’s being careful not to be too friendly. As if sharing a laugh or getting to know me would send the wrong signal to his powerful brother.
We glide in through the iron gates, and I shiver as they close behind us. Now that I’ve packed a bag, it feels like I’m not going to see the outside world for a long time. I put that thought away, focusing on my upcoming meeting with Francisco. I’m dying to hear what he has to say, and why he thinks it’s important for me to move in with him. I wonder if he knows something about the people who killed my father.
Giovanni helps me inside, but just leaves my suitcase by the door. He disappears into the house, and I don’t see him again. I don’t see anyone for a moment and wonder if I should go investigate Francisco’s office.
Finally, one maid comes to find me. “May I show you to your room?” she asks.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say. “I’m not even sure if I’m staying.”
“The master had us prepare one of the most beautiful guestrooms,” the maid says. “Come, take a look.”
“Thanks,” I respond, feeling a warmth from the woman that I hadn’t expected. She’s just about my age and pretty for someonewhose job demands she remain invisible. I had never noticed her before.
We walk upstairs, me with my suitcase and her with a set of towels. She shows me to a room at the end of the hallway, about as far from Frankie’s suite as you could get while still being on the same side of the house. Inside, I’m treated to something similar to what Francisco’s son has. There’s a sitting room, a bedroom and my own private bath. In fact, I could live here quite comfortably without ever having to leave. The three rooms are almost as big as my entire apartment.
The maid sets the towels down in the bathroom, giving me a shy smile. “Please call if you need anything,” she says.
“I will,” I promise.
I’m walking around the living room, examining all of the artwork on the walls, when there’s a knock at the door. The door is open, so I can see Francisco, but he still announces himself anyway.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s beautiful,” I respond. “But I can’t stay.”
“Please,” he insists, coming toward me with no hurry in his step. He takes me by the hand and seems to study the length of my fingers. Then he leads me to the sofa and we both sit down together. “I found out who killed your father and why.”
I gasp, unable to contain my reaction. This is something I’ve spent years agonizing over. I want to know and yet I don’t at the same time. Just knowing the condition of his body was enough to drive me crazy. Am I going to be able to handle the whole truth? Or will it be equally traumatic as seeing that photo?
“Who? Why?” I whisper.
“A man named Carlo Andretti,” Francisco begins. “Or one of his henchmen. He’s the leader of a rival family, and someone your father pissed off.”
My throat is paper-dry, but I have to hear this. “How did he piss Andretti off?”
“Your father was a hitman,” Francisco says, holding my eyes with his own so I can’t look away.
I find a wealth of compassion in his gaze that helps comfort me. I don’t know how to react. I knew my father was into something illegal, but I had no idea that he committed murder for a living.
“How many people did he kill?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t know all the details,” Francisco admits. “But I do know that at the end, he killed the wrong person.”
