I sit there for a while, breathing through the tremor in my hands, watching steam lift in thin ribbons from a plate I can’t make myself touch. Outside the glass, the courtyard brightens by degrees, the fountain’s arc catching the morning.
And despite what he said about not wanting to frighten me, I am afraid.
Chapter Thirty Six
Giovanni
If I stand still, I can hear the heat tick through the baseboards and the grandfather clock in the hall notch off endless seconds. I don’t stand still.
Luca’s study is all leather and walnut and Conti history—photographs, oil on canvas, a brass lamp from the little apartment we were all cramped into when we first arrived in New Jersey.
Roberto sits on the edge of the long table, jacket off, sleeves neat because God forbid he wrinkle, even at a time like this. Vito isin the corner chair with a legal pad on which he has yet to write something. And probably won’t because Vito would rather rush in guns blazing than take notes. Luca stands with his shoulder against the window mullion, profile cut in daylight, watching the drive like he expects it to tell him something.
I make a circuit of the room. My feet know every plank in this floor; my jaw clicks every time I grind a tooth. Twenty-four hours and change.
“Stop,” Luca says without looking at me. “You’re wearing a groove.”
“You’re worried about a groove in the floor,” I ask coldly.
“You need to calm down.” A command, not a suggestion.
“I need information.”
He turns then. The lines around his mouth look ten years older when he’s worried about me. “We don’t know what we don’t know,” he says. “You’re filling in the blanks.”
“Her phone was there,” I say.
“Maybe she left it to charge.”
‘It wasn’t on a charger.”
“Maybe—”
“Don’t,” I snap, and the snap is a whip. I regret it the moment it’s out, but I don’t take it back. “Don’t ‘maybe’ me.”
Roberto says, mildly, “There’s a slight chance it’s simpler than you’re letting it be.”
I look at him. “A friend who shows up at night, no text, no call, and she just… goes? Leaves her keys? Leaves her phone? Leaves her knife on the console?”
“Enough with the knife, Giovanni,” Luca says.
“And if you would look past your own nose for one second, Luca,” I say, emphasizing his name, “you would understand the significance.”
He pushes away from the window now, eyes flashing in anger. He may be the current leader of the Contis, but that doesn’t scare me. I’ve stood where he is now. Did, in fact, for the dozen years he was behind bars.
Roberto comes to stand between us, brave and stupid man that he is. “That’s enough, you two. This solves nothing.”
Vito finally tears his eyes off the blank pad. “Say the word, and I start knocking on doors. And heads.”
“Not yet,” Luca says, voice flat. “This does nothing but bring heat on us, not information. We wait for Nico and Antonio. They should be here soon.”
“If you knew anything about chefs,” I bite out, “you would know how valuable they consider their knives. She would never leave it unwashed. She would never leave it anywhere but rolled and dry and put away. Not on some console with bits of apple rotting on it.”
Roberto’s gaze flicks to me, sharp. “That I believe.” He turns to Luca. “It means interruption mid-task. She put the fruit down because something changed her plan.”
“Changed it enough to walk out,” Luca says, then pins me with a look. “On her own feet.”
“With a man.” I step closer to the table, plant my hands on the wood. “No hand on her, fine. But pressure was there nonetheless. Just because you don’t see it on the video, doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”
