“Of course not.” Carlo holds up his hands and shrugs. “Meant no disrespect, Angelo. Abella and I go way back. In fact, she was friends with my wife. Isn’t that right?”
The slightest of tremors creeps up my spine as I quietly acknowledge the subtle threat woven into those words. He knows I wasn’t friends with his wife. At best, we crossed paths at Society events. The first time I even spoke with her in-depth was when she came to Aegis for help. His indication that we were friends means he must know that somehow.
He wants me to know it, too.
As I’m considering it, I wonder if it’s possible he found theBellamortehis wife intended to use on him. It was disguised as perfume, so it doesn’t seem likely. But what else could it be?
We’re always careful, and Mariella only gives the most dire cases poison. It’s always better to extract the women if we can. Too many deaths will draw attention. But if it’s a situation where it’s the only way to get them out alive, then it’s worth the risk.As long as we never get caught.
Angelo’s palms sweep over the goosebumps along my arms, and I can feel his gaze on me. I don’t want him to sense that something’s amiss, so I do my best to adopt a neutral tone.
“Your wife and I were little more than acquaintances,” I tell Carlo. “But I was sorry to hear of her passing.”
“Yes, well.” His lips curve at the edges. “Onto the next one.”
I stiffen in Angelo’s arms, unable to hide my visceral reaction to that flippant remark. The man is pure evil. He’s also heavily intoxicated, judging by the alcohol wafting off him. I hope he drowns in it.
“Abella, go inside and warm up,” Angelo murmurs against me. “I need a word with Carlo.”
I nod, grateful for the opportunity to slip away.
Inside, I find a group of Angelo’s associates enjoying cocktails. Most of them are familiar faces, and they each pause their conversations to greet me as I make my way around the room. Their wives, girlfriends, and mistresses are on the opposite side of the lounge area, speaking in hushed whispers as their gazes dart my way.
I don’t have to wonder if I’m the topic of conversation. It’s written all over their faces. I offer them a polite smile and grab another flute of champagne from a passing tray. I imagine it will be quite some time before the gossip about my brother-swap-wedding-fiasco dies down.
Angelo and Carlo return just as Camille announces dinner is served. We take our places in the dining room: Angelo at the head of the table, me at his side. It’s a leisurely affair with five courses and safe topics of conversation reserved for the polite company of women. We discuss travel, charity galas, and the latest happenings among the families.
Throughout the entirety of the evening, I catch Carlo’s gaze lingering on me as he whispers to the men beside him. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the nervous glances the other men cast toward Angelo indicate it can’t be good.
Outwardly, Angelo remains calm, but it’s the kind of deadly calm you see before a storm. With every passing minute, the air thickens, dark clouds looming on the horizon.
When the conversation shifts to local politics, I tune most of it out until someone mentions Grant Ellison.
“His face is all over the news,” Dario says. “Now they’re excavating his entire fuckin’ life. This isn’t good for business.”
“Do you think he ran off?” Turi asks.
“Nah. We had a good thing going with him. His election was in the bag. It had to be a rival that snatched him.”
“Either that or he ran off with all our campaign donations.”
“The money didn’t go anywhere,” Angelo says. “I’ve got people on it. Whoever is responsible, I’ll find them.”
My dinner drops like a lead weight in my stomach. Angelo always makes good on his promises, and that doesn’t bode well for Aegis. I doubt it would be good for business to have his wife involved in a network that’s disappearing other wives.
“My money’s on that weasel Whitlow. He knew he was going to lose the election, and he had him snuffed out.”
“No way. He’s too much of a pussy.”
“My money’s on that little bitch of a mistress,” Carlo says. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since he disappeared. You ask me, it’s becoming a real fuckin’ problem in our city.”
For the briefest of seconds, his eyes flick to me again, and it solidifies my certainty. He must know something.
At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how careful we are. We can contain individual involvement and limit information, but the vulnerability isn’t with us. It’s with the women we try to help. If their husbands get so much as a whiff of something awry, they don’t have a problem torturing it out of them. I have to wonder if that’s what happened with Carlo’s wife.
Regardless, he must not have any proof. If he did, I would have been dead a long time ago.
“Is there a reason you keep staring at my fucking wife?” Angelo’s question ricochets off the walls of the dining room like a crack of thunder.
