Acid rises in my throat as I stare at it, then my gaze flicksback to his and I secure my mask, a smile hiding the poison on my tongue, but for now I play nice and shake his hand.
“You wanted to meet me?” He stares as if waiting for me to hand him some intel, but I have nothing. The only purpose for this meeting was to know where he is and make sure he’s as far away from the hospital as possible.
“Yes. I wanted to touch base while I’m in Rome. Finding any leads on the target is proving difficult.” I scratch at the short bristles on my jaw as I assess his reaction.
“I suggest you try harder, Bianchi. That’s what I’m paying you for.” He spits the words as if frustrated.
“The brother hasn’t seen her in years. The mother can hardly speak without coughing up a lung. She’d sooner die than give anything away.”
He clicks his tongue. “Then maybe we need to get creative,” he says, lowering his voice. “Tell the old bat you’ll hurt the kid.”
Every muscle in my body locks. Fire floods my veins. “You’d use your own son as bait?”My son. The lad doted on this man, and why I cannot fathom.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, clicking his tongue, slow and deliberate. “It’s not personal, Bianchi. It’s just business. Rose is an asset that got misplaced. And I’m simply reclaiming what’s mine.”
“I’m not in the business of hurting kids. It’s not my style. Nor is hurting women.”
He sparks up a cigarette, the sulphur bite reaching me before the smoke does. “Relax. I wouldn’t hurt the kid. But she doesn’t know that.” He blows out a plume in my face. “Like I said. Get creative and the old bat might talk.”
I want to break his nose. Slam his head against the stone behind us and watch the scar split wide open. I want to pry his eyes from his sockets and cut out his tongue, break every finger that’s ever touched my girl and tarnished her soft petals. But I don’t.
For now, I swallow the bile on my tongue and clear my throat as I tighten my tie. “I’ll see what I can do.” I tilt my head, studying him. “Why would your wife feel the need to disappear?” I give him a hard stare, wondering what this bastard did to my woman that would make her want to change her name.
Magnus’s lips twitch. “Some women are so dramatic.”
The muscles in my jaw clench so tight, my molars grind. My fingers tense at my sides, aching to grab him by the collar and throw him down the steps. “You think she wants to play chase?”
He shrugs, too casual. “She likes to play games.”
I lean in, close enough for him to smell the anger on my breath. “Or maybe she tired of playing your punching bag.”
Magnus steps closer, lowering his voice. Click. “You’re acting like I’m the monster,” he says, tilting his head. “But didn’t you kill her father?”
“People get what they deserve.” I glare at him, but do my best to keep my cool.
His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—a crack in the mask. “You got something you want to say, Bianchi?” he asks, all teeth now.
“Just trying to get into the mind of the woman I’m tracing. It helps to understand the… psychology.”
“Don’t waste your time psychoanalysing her. She’s a manipulator. And when I find her, I’ll remind her exactly who she belongs to.”
She doesn’t belong to you. My fist curls, but I school my face.
We lock eyes. He tries to read me. I let him. Let him think I’m still his man. Let him believe the leash still fits.
He scoffs. “Just find her. Or I’ll find someone else who can.”
“And when I do?” My voice is smooth. Deceptively calm. “What happens then?”
He smiles, teeth stained with smoke. “Then we bring her home.”
Home.
My fists tighten. Her home is with me. With her son. With the life she built away from you. “You’ll get what you paid for,” I say, turning before I forget we’re surrounded by tourists and let my hands speak instead.
He wants her home. I’ll make sure I bring her home—right after I bury him.
Once out of his earshot, I pull out my phone and call Rose, needing her voice to soothe the tension from my body. I take a left as the phone rings and inhale the fresh air of the Villa Borghese gardens, the scent of the stone pines and citrus fruits, a kiosk selling stone-baked pizzas and the sweet aroma of the gelato cart. I’m taken back almost fourteen years.
