The streets of London ran red with blood for many months after Lucian Forsyth perished in a mysterious fire at his country estate.
“There has to be a link we’re not seeing.”
Angelo nods. “Yeah.” The attacks seem way too personal for a man like Barrington to risk so much by getting involved, which he’s doubtless regretting now.
Angelo’s phone rings. He grimaces, which tells me it’s Lorenzo.
“Father. Something wrong?”
Their conversation is short, and by the time Angelo hangs up, he looks ready to kill someone.
“He wants to see me.”
I nod. “Then let’s get this over with.”
Angelo and I walk up the stone steps to the front door of Lorenzo’s gaudy mansion. Even though I spent much of my late teenage years with Angelo in this house, it never looked or felt like a home.
Priceless paintings hang on the walls, and the floors are polished marble. The furniture is antique, shipped from Italy, and there are no personal touches anywhere. No mass-market paperbacks, candid photos, or quirky vacation souvenirs.
Lorenzo designed the house to reflect his Italian heritage, even though he immigrated to the US as a teenager and rarely goes back to the country of his birth.
There are far too many rooms for one man and a handful of servants. It’s a monument to excess and consumerism. An ostentatious display of wealth.
Outside, gardeners nurture olive trees and a lemon grove, bougainvillea, and grapevines, even though Lorenzo prefers sitting in his study with his cigars and bottles of bourbon.
It’s possible the house was more welcoming when Angelo’s mother was still alive, though somehow, I doubt it.
Lorenzo’s housekeeper welcomes us with a smile and points us toward the garden room, where Lorenzo sits watching his beloved dogs tear a carcass to pieces. I shudder at the memory of his dogs tearing a would-be assassin apart many years ago.
“Boys. So glad you could join me.” Angelo takes a seat opposite his father while I lean against the wall.
“What’s this about? I’m busy.” Angelo is far brusquer than usual, and Lorenzo’s jaw tightens. He’s not impressed with his son’s attitude. My face stays blank, but inside, I’m surprised. It’s unlike Angelo to show his frustration. The attacks on Chiara and Luka must have gotten to him more than I realized.
Lorenzo relaxes after a minute passes and half-smiles, which makes me tense. I’ve seen that expression before, usually a fraction of a second before he shoots someone in the face at point-blank range. I’m carrying a gun, but I’d prefer not to use it. Not when we’re surrounded by Lorenzo’s men.
“You seem tense, Son. Everything alright?” From the way Lorenzo leans back in his chair, legs spread, looking like a lion surveying his kingdom, he thinks he holds the upper hand here.
“We’re dealing with a few minor issues. Nothing for you to worry about, Father, so feel free to take your whore on another vacation somewhere hot. I hear Dubai is popular with the criminal fraternity these days.”
Lorenzo chuckles. “Francesca is too busy to take a vacation, son. She’s devoted herself to learning the ins and outs of her new role.” He reaches for a glass of bourbon while Angelo scoffs.
“Yes, I heard you’ve been fucking her in the conference room. Really, father? That’s low, even for you.”
I thank my lucky stars I wasn’t there to witness that. The poor staff. They’ll all need eye bleach.
Lorenzo just shrugs. He has no shame. “You should take a leaf out of my book, son. Teach that wife of yours where she belongs. On her knees.” He smirks. “Is she expecting yet?”
“Not yet,” Angelo grits out.
“If she were my wife,” Lorenzo continues, “I’d have traded her in for a new model by now.” We both know Lorenzo is trying to bait him. Instead of biting back, he yawns and makes a point of checking at his watch.
“So is there a point to this conversation? Like I said, I’m busy.”
“The marriage contract is now signed. Your sister will marry Santini in four weeks’ time. He’s making the arrangements. I’ll expect you and your lovely wife to be at Saint Mark’s for eleven o’clock on Saturday the twenty-first.”
Fuck.
We’re running out of time to get Fina out of this marriage. And no, the irony of us wanting to save Fina while doing nothing to prevent Chiara from being forced to marry Angelo is not lost on me.
