Silence, then, “And you want to know if I ordered Mateo Castellano’s killing.”
“I am curious why you’d mark him for everyone and their fucking grandmother to know it was you.” I played dumb. Even if Salvatore had spoken with him after our call—which I doubted—he wouldn’t betray me.
“I have enemies, Dominic. You know how it is for us. And snitches aren’t tolerated. Period.” He sounded stern, unmoved, like a real head of the family.
But he still didn’t answer my question.
“He’d done work for us in the past. His father was a friend to Franco.”
“Business is business. Where are you, Dominic?”
“West.” I wasn’t giving him anything. The more I thought about it, the guiltier Roman became.
“Do you need money? I can send you something. Franco won’t know.”
My lip twitched at his charity. His giving away the Benedetti money like it was his.
“No, Uncle. I don’t need money.” I could hear the hostility in my tone. Surely he could too.
Silence. “You’re well, then? Do you want me to do anything with the house? Will you be coming back?”
“No. I just grew curious when I heard about the murder, the brand. It didn’t seem like you.”
“The body shouldn’t have been found,” he said flatly.
Again, not taking responsibility, although not quite denying it either.
“But it was left where it could be. Seems like quite the oversight.”
“I need to meet with Franco, Dominic. Good to hear from you.”
“Tell him I said hello.” I hung up and leaned back in my chair. I had eight days until the auction. Eight days—at the most—until Scava would come looking for Gia and me. Eight days to figure out how Roman was involved.
A clanging sound stole my attention, and I stood. We were locked in the house. No one was here but us, no one knew about this place but Roman, and he didn’t know where I was. I’d left my pistol in the SUV, but checking Salvatore’s desk drawers, I found one there along with some ammunition. I loaded the handgun and opened the study door, listening. Another sound came, this time from the kitchen. I walked that way, scanning the large, open space as I went, the ghostlike lumps beneath the dustcovers eerie in the darkness of night.
The kitchen light was on. I could see it from beneath the door. Just before I kicked it open, I heard Gia mutter a curse from the other side.
I opened the door and shook my head. She stood beside the counter, sucking on the tip of her finger. She froze too, her gaze falling from my eyes to the pistol I held. I put the safety on and tucked it into the back of my jeans, then cleared my throat. I scanned her from head to toe.
“I found the clothes in the closet.”
She wore an oversize lavender sweater that fell off the shoulder and a short, hip-hugging black skirt. On her feet shehad on a pair of calf-length sheepskin boots that accentuated her slender, toned legs. She’d wound her long dark hair up into a messy, wet bun, and her face had been scrubbed of all the dirt from the last few days.
Gia shuffled her weight to her other foot and stuck the tip of her finger back in her mouth. “I guess I forgot how to use a can opener.”
She looked so different than she had in the cabin. Everything about her seemed changed, now that she had proper clothes, a shower, a freedom of sorts. She looked confident. And fucking beautiful.
I cleared my throat. “There’s probably a first-aid kit somewhere, knowing Salvatore.” I started opening cupboards and drawers to search for it, doing anything possible to not look at her.
“Salvatore?”
I stopped. I’d given too much away. “My brother.”
“And his wife, Lucia.”
I looked at her sharply. “How did you know?”
“She likes to write her name in her books,” Gia said with a smile. Then that smile vanished. “You’re not lying, are you? She wasn’t…a slave…”
