“Lorenzo Cappelletti was murdered that day,” she blurts. “Probably an hour or so before your meeting.”
I frown. “Lorenzo Cappelletti?”
“A man rumored to be the East Coast Godfather. AmajorItalian mafioso. The kind of criminal the FBI would blow their load over putting behind bars.”
A violent man. Cut-throat and fucking conniving.
All the blood drains from my face. “What does that have to do with Raffael?”
“Great question. Thanks for asking. Decades ago, Lorenzo had sons, three little boys, all of them having disappeared a few days after their mother’s murder. There was speculation they were kidnapped by the same men who killed Lorenzo’s wife, but their bodies were never found. I think Raffael and his brothers are Lorenzo's lost?—”
“They have a sister.” I shake my head refuting the possibility. “Aurelia is Eliseo’s twin.”
“I know. Just hear me out. In the whole scope of underworld hierarchy, baby boys grow to be assets, while little girls are liabilities. Kidnap victims. Weaknesses. It isn’t far-fetched to think Lorenzo hid the birth of his daughter as soon as she was born,” she rambles. “But let me tell you the convincing part. The trail started with the yacht. TheRequiemused to be Lorenzo’s. Then he died and ownership passed to a trust.”
“Raffael could’ve chartered the yacht.” I force myself to keep it together. To contain the panic.
“Potentially, but listen—someone put a lot of work into hiding the benefactors of the trust, and I meana lot. It took me forever just to find who managed the asset, which was a super-shady corp rumored to cater for a niche clientele, who all have extreme wealth and hard time behind bars in common.”
My lips part but nothing comes out.
“Then suddenly,” she continues, “within a few weeks of Lorenzo’s death, the management of the trust changes hands. Which makes sense if it was being moved to his benefactor’s management, right? And do you want to know who now manages the trust?”
No, I don’t. I really don’t.
“It’s Spector & Associates, Isla. The group who handles all of the Cavallo?—”
“Quinn, stop.” I start walking again, faster this time—anything to distract me from the world tilting.
“I’m not falling off the rails,” she promises. “I haven’t even told you the most convincing part.”
“Don’t—”
“They were at the funeral. It was a closed ceremony. Super small. And Raffael and his brothers were there. At least I swear it was them. The only photo I could find was grainy and the resolution collapsed when I zoomed in, but I’d bet my shoe collection on it.”
A photo? Does Raffael know about this? “How would you even find something like that?”
“It’s a long story that started with a Reddit rabbit hole, a sub-thread that reeked of psychopathic misogyny and somehow ended in a dark-web cesspool where incels basically fangirl over notorious criminals like they’re anime idols at a Comic-Con for the emotionally stunted.”
“Okay, seriously, that’s enough.” My grip on the phone goes numb. “Do you even realize what you’re implying? We worked with Raffael’s father for years. Giancarlo adored his sons. He’s probably rolling in his grave?—”
“But what if I’m right?”
“If you’re right,” I hiss, “and that’s a laughable concept—then the last thing you should be doing is digging deeper. You’retalking about a criminal organization who hides information for a reason. You get that, don’t you? You could be putting your life in danger. Have you told anyone about this?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” I fight to steady my tone, to make myself sound like I’m in control instead of rapidly flailing. “My reputation can’t take another hit right now, especially one about a staff member—who happens to be my best friend—digging into the lives of my clients’ private business.”
“Isla—”
“I’m serious. I need you to focus on keeping things stable at work,notthrowing more fuel on the fire of my ineptitude.”
I reach the idling limo and keep my face downcast, not wanting the driver to clock my panic and report it back to Raffael. He opens the door, I murmur my thanks and my address, then slide into the temperature-controlled interior.
“Please, Quinn. I can’t manage any more drama right now.”
There’s a long pause, thick with my best friend’s silence and the pulse hammering in my ears. I reach for the frosted bottle of water in the cup holder, twist off the lid, and take a sip to keep myself occupied.
