I roll my eyes, shutting down the call.
“I’m out,” I tell Niko, who is tending to the Russian in the same corner. “Have fun with whatever it is you’re chasing.”
He doesn’t turn to look at me, but the amusement in his voice is clear as day. “Oh, I am.”
I’min a no-name bar in the Bronx, face to face with the Cosa Nostra traitor. Wearing a three-piece suit with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Massimo Bellini surveys the space from the usual table we always share.
The scent of cheap beer hangs thick in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of stronger alcohol. A barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his eye betrays the wheels turning in his mind.
“One of theCapiwent missing. Probably dead by now,” he murmurs low enough so no one can hear, despite the loud soccer game blasted on TV nearby.
I quirk a brow. “Hm. I would’ve expected Antonio to blame it on us. Unless he’s keeping the information for later.”
“Nah. It was an inside job. Whoever took him left us a hint.”
“What kind?”
“Sempre famiglia.Always family. Written in blood on his coffee table.”
I take a sip from my drink. “And what does that have to do with anything?”
Massimo drums his fingers on the table. “I have reason to believe this is someone we haven’t met yet. Maybe a distant relative of Antonio’s, and this is just my assumption, but it could complicate things if he wants to take over the business.”
Indeed, it could. One of our goals with this so-called alliance is to replace Antonio with someone we can influence in the long run. That won’t be Massimo, of course, but he doesn’t have to know it just yet. Not before we take back Chicago.
“Who told you this might be someone we haven’t met?” I ask.
“Lucia Donatello. She knows more than she’s letting on.”
“Does she now?” I had a feeling the retired honeypot wasn’t done scheming. They never are. “Anything I should know about this woman?” I ask.
Massimo shrugs impassively. “Don’t know. She came to the Ferrara estate once or twice since you took the girl. I overheard her saying she was afraid she’d ‘remember things.’ Whatever that means.”
My ears perk up.
As far as I know, Antonio wanted to protect Cecilia—or his reputation—so he made sure her crime wasn’t made public, and told everyone his wife died of a heart attack. But gauging from what this fucker is telling me, it sounds like maybe Lucia knows more about that night. Does that mean Antonio confided in her? Why would he do that?
Most importantly, does this woman know something about myLastochkathat I don’t?
Victoria: Don't be late.
I groanas I read the text from thirty minutes ago. Out of all the things that could’ve happened tonight, my sister-in-law has suddenly decided to host a family dinner. Because what a big, happy family we are. She says she wants Cecilia to feelwelcomein our house.
As if.
MyLastochkawould rather throw herself out of the window than befriend any of us. Understandably so. I know it, and Victoria knows it, which is why the whole thing is so unnecessary. Except, maybe, I wouldn’t mind seeing Cecilia squirm again.
I walk through the main door of my brother’s wing, entering the foyer and taking off my coat. Corinne greets me somewhere along the way, throwing me a cutting glance for being late. I refrain from rolling my eyes and mosey into the dining room, where my brother and his wife are seated at the ends of the table. When they see me, their demeanor changes from all lovey-dovey to sulking and slowly shaking their heads.
“One time,” Wolf says. “One time, we ask you to be on time, and you still show up late.”
I plop down in one of the chairs, ignoring him. “So, where is she? Where is my wife?”
Victoria and Wolf share a knowing look, and then she glances at me. “She didn’t want to come.”
I smile. “That so?”
“Maybe this was too soon for her,” she adds. “Where are you going?”
