If not, they would face my wrath.
And black magic as old as time.
While gris-gris was powerful, love was the most powerful magic of all.
EPILOGUE
Emmeline
Four months later…
“Why are all government and state offices so freaking drab?” Donatello jerked to his feet, moving toward the single window in the room.
He was right in that in the older buildings whose renovations had been delayed based on the discovery of asbestos, every office held a sense of decay. As if everything discussed or decided was based on death.
I shuddered from the thought. “Try and relax. This is supposed to be a formality and nothing more.”
He leaned against the wall, shoving his hand into his trouser pocket. Trying to act casual. Pretending he wasn’t ready to climb down people’s throats with a loaded Glock.
At least he’d worn a white shirt to appear friendlier instead of his signature black. Not that with the scowl on his face he could fake his demeanor.
He was a killer after all.
Well, killer turned stockbroker. His dabbling in trading over the last few weeks had garnered him a reputation within the family and the Prince organization. If you wanted advice on what stocks to invest in, Donatello was your man. He had an uncanny ability to know which ones were about to do well and which ones were ready to tank.
However, that hadn’t taken the edge off the man.
At least we’d heard the Cosa Nostra had found the people responsible for his parents’ deaths. They were no longer breathing. Some good news as of late.
“I can’t relax. This means everything. What the fuck is taking so long?”
“I know. Don’t you think it does to me too?” His exasperation was stressing me the hell out.
His snarl only added to the butterflies swarming in my stomach. While Ms. Gannon had told me over the phone that our meeting was routine, I’d sensed something was wrong.
“I know, honey. I’m just angry at their incompetence!” He raised his voice on purpose.
“Would you stop. Come sit down.”
Every time he grumbled, which lately had been a lot, he reminded me of a kid who hadn’t gotten his way.
Before he had a chance to retort or otherwise determine how to make the lives of everyone on the floor miserable, Ms. Gannon walked into the room. In her hand was a manila folder, which I assumed was our case file.
“I am so sorry to keep you waiting. Please sit down, Mr. Giovanni.” When he didn’t comply right away, she offered him a stern look like one a first grade teacher would give her worst student.
He finally complied, but not without grumbling as he did.
She sat down, carefully placing the file on a desk that had seen better days.
In the nineteen-sixties.
After the comprehensive glare she offered Donatello, she turned her attention to me. “Mrs. Giovanni?—”
“Prince-Giovanni,” I corrected.
Her tongue tied, she ignored the name completely. “Emmeline. As you know, our role here with the Department of Social Services is to ensure the children we place in homes is the best decision for both parties. There are a number of considerations that go into play.”
Now Donatello’s ears were perked and not in a good way. “What are you getting at? We’ve passed all your tests, Ms. Gannon, and are more than qualified to adopt a child.”
