Her medical records, the identity of the man who hit her, who died in the crash, photos of her father, Enzo Ricci, from before he died, and photos of Ace on stage. Fuck, she was sothin. That couldn’t have been healthy. Everything about her was different. And the one thing I notice in every picture is that she didn’t have the light in her eyes that she does now.
When I’ve gone through every single item Cassian sent, I go back to the crash photos.
“How the fuck did you survive that, Ace?” I murmur to myself.
I stare at the horror that changed the course of Ace’s life, and I think I might be sick.
She was a prima ballerina of the biggest dancing studio on the West Coast, and on a random night, it all ended in the blink of an eye. And now, a year later, she’sstillsuffering from severe pain.
I got one thing right about her.
Ace isn’t just an average woman.
She’s a mafia princess.
Daughter of the late Enzo Ricci. Enforcer for the Italian mafia.
Why is she keeping her identity hidden here?
What the fuck is she running from?
After tossing my phone onto the passenger seat, I get back on the road and drive toward my house. I’ve wanted to text Ace all day to check on her, but I didn’t want to disturb her if she was sleeping.
It’s been the longest fucking day waiting because, while she might not be mine, I want to know who the fuck was calling her while she was tucked intomybed, inmyfucking house.
When I pull in through the wrought-iron gates of the neighborhood, my eyes jump right to her driveway, where there’s a black Range Rover parked.
Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I grit my teeth and turn into the second parking spot in her driveway and cut the engine. I’ve never considered myself a possessive or jealous manbefore; there’s never been a woman in my life who I’ve given a shit about. Yet, the thought that there might be a man in her house makes me fucking furious.
At her front door, I don’t knock. Instead, I enter the code I watched her put in this morning and walk inside.
CHAPTER 21
Ace
Luciano has been growlingat me like a bear with a thorn in its paw ever since he got here. I had to literally push him out of my bedroom so I could use the bathroom and change into something more appropriate. He was pacing in my living room when I came downstairs, and he hasn’t stopped, even though I’ve told him to sit down multiple times.
“Who the fuck is he, Lacey? Why did he answer your phone?” It’s the fifth time he’s asked since I discovered him in my bedroom. And once again, I ignore the questions.
He hands me a bottle of water, the cap already twisted for me, and the corner of my lips twitches as I take it from him.
Déjà vu.
“Drink all of that,” he demands.
Yeah, definitely déjà vu.
I take several dramatic sips just to appease him. When I set it on the end table next to where I’m sitting on the couch, Luciano glares at the bottle, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
Instead, he turns his glare on me. “I can’t believe you. You told me before you came here that you weren’t getting migraines anymore. You fucking lied straight to my face. That’s unacceptable, Lacey. Unacceptable.”
Fuck.
The last thing I want is to upset Luciano. All I have to do is look into his glacier-blue eyes to know that he’s more hurt than anything.
I drop my shoulders and flick my gaze to him apologetically, my eyes burning. “I’m sorry.”
He scrubs one of his heavily tattooed hands over his face before pressing his fingers to his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ. What am I going to do with you?”
