“Well, the twins don’t know anything about the wedding,” I say. “Maybe Parker’s not going to violate the contract. Maybe heisjust showing up to rub elbows.”
“No fucking way,” Adriano growls.
“Yeah, he’s planning something,” Doc says.
Ice forms in my stomach once again, freezing the scotch warming my insides. It’s the same feeling as the last time I broke a wineglass.
An omen.
A bad sign.
But one I refuse to endorse.
“If Parker attempts anything at the wedding he’ll die,” I say simply. “He can’t plan an attack, and neither can we. To be known to even be considering retaliation would violate the contract. There’ll be no attempts at counter-surveillance or damage control. Understood?”
Adriano nods.
“Understood?” I demand of Doc.
He raises both hands. “Understood.Jesus.”
“Good.”
Doc takes another swig of vodka and stands.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To go sit on the sidelines at January’s bath. See if I can’t get involved.”
“A tempting prospect. But if you leave, you’ll miss me speaking to Corinne Whitehall.”
Doc’s mouth hangs open. “What?”
“We can’t do anything about Parker,” I say. “But seeing as this is the night of distressing phone calls, I don’t see why we can’t remind Mrs. Whitehall of how precarious her position on this mortal coil is.”
Doc’s face breaks into an evil smile as he drops back into his seat.
“I need an encrypted line,” I tell Adriano. “Call Gretzky. And get him to bring another bottle of Chivas.”
It’s entirely easy to reach Corinne Whitehall. She picks up my video call within seconds. She’s sitting behind what looks like her late husband’s desk in a fine pink dress. She’s a good-looking woman, slim and fair but her eyes are as cold as glass.
“Mr. Morelli,” she says in her tinkling Connecticut accent. “It’s so lovely to hear from you again.”
Six months ago, I arranged a video conference with Corinne to request she let January and her sister speak to one another. I offered her a million dollars to comply, but the bitch demanded five. Paying her would only lead her to believe she had power over me, so I refused.
“Mrs. Whitehall,” I say in my calmest voice. “I understand you went against my wishes and spoke to your stepdaughter this evening.”
“I am her mother.”
“You’re no such thing,” I say lightly. “You were a caretaker and a poor one at that.”
Mrs. Whitehall leans closer to the camera, her dress gaping to expose her cleavage and the tops of a lace bra. “You have such a lovely accent, Mr. Morelli,” she purrs. “I’m surprised it hasn’t gone after all these years in America.”
Beside me, Doc makes a vomiting sound. I bite back a scowl. “Well, you know what they say—nothing you love ever truly leaves you.”
“So true,” Mrs. Whitehall sighs. “Have you changed your mind, Mr. Morelli? Are you willing to let my stepdaughter see her sister?”
“Not on your terms, you narcissistic black hole of want.”
