“You should have gone home, dear wife.”
I lift the gun and shoot her in the head.
“Yeah, Mom. I know it’s late.” I adjust the phone between my shoulder and ear and lift a stack of bedsheets. “I promise, I’ll be careful walking home from the train. Please don’t worry. Did you take your medication?”
“I did.”
God, her voice sounds so weak. “Are you in pain?”
“I’m fine, baby. How’s the party?”
I open my mouth to tell her that I ran into Lucrezia earlier, but quickly reconsider. My mom’s been privy to my half sister speaking to me like I’m something awful stuck to the sole of her shoe on quite a few occasions, and it always makes Mom so sad.
“It’s going great,” I say instead. “Everyone is dressed in their red-carpet best. Beautiful flowers are everywhere. I wish you could see it. And, I managed to sneak a few hors d’oeuvres into my backpack to bring home. You’ll love them.”
“Iris! What if someone finds out!”
“No one saw me, Mom. Don’t worry. I have to go now. Go to bed, okay? Love you.”
“Love you, too. Be safe, baby.”
I slip the phone into my pocket and head out of the laundry room, carrying a huge stack of linens in my arms. With my fancy uniform ruined, I can’t go back to serve in the banquet hall, so Capo Brio’s housekeeper sent one of the other girls to replace me. Instead, I’m helping to prepare the rooms for a few unexpected overnight guests.
Capo Brio Saccone’s house is a sprawling, two-level Cape Cod-style mansion that has been expanded over the decades to include multiple additional wings. I’ve never been here before, and with only the vague directions I’ve been given, I’ve already gotten lost a couple of times trying to get to the rooms where I needed to make up the bed. It’s no different now. I turn my head left and right, trying to decide which of the two hallways is the “north.” Considering the house is laid out more like a maze than anything that could be navigated with a simple compass, “north wing” makes zero sense at all.
A couple of guys are heading toward the end of one hallway, where the music and chatter are more pronounced. My guess is that way leads back to the banquet hall. The other corridor appears to be more deserted, so I’m betting that’s where the additional guest rooms are. I rush off in that direction. It’s not as if I can continue to stand here, in plain view of partygoers, with a stack of sheets in my hands.
The first two doors I come across are locked, but the next one has been left slightly ajar. Inside, the light is on, and I catch a glimpse of a large pool table in the center of the room. Definitely not a guest bedroom. I continue to the next door.Turning the knob, I find it unlocked. Cautiously, I stick my head in and realize it’s a study, likely Capo Brio’s personal office space. There’s a massive desk in the middle and bookshelves all around. The top of the desk is in complete disarray, and papers and pens litter the floor. The air smells of sex. I get the distinct feeling that, had I walked in here just minutes prior, I would have seen much more than I want.
I slam the door and spin around, briefly leaning on the solid wood to slow my heart rate. Christ. I thank my lucky stars for my timing. I knowla Famigliamembers are not particularly shy about their affairs, despite their big talk about propriety and the sanctity of marriage, but I’m still glad I didn’t witness anything. Unwittingly walking in on someone’s clandestine business would have been my biggest disaster today. These people do not appreciate anyone finding out their dirty secrets.
Taking a deep breath, I dash toward the door across the hall. In my haste, the stack of sheets in my arms begins to wobble, and I contort myself this way and that to clamp it down. It forces me to use my elbow to push down the handle and my hip to open the door. As I shuffle my way into the room, the sheet at the top of the stack of linens I’m carrying slips off, tumbling to the floor. Cursing inwardly, I squat to pick it up while trying to keep the rest of my load from the same fate.
“I am afraid you are in the wrong room.” A deep, velvety voice rumbles somewhere close by.
I straighten, an apology and an excuse already on my lips, but the words die before I can get the sound out. Instead, I freeze like a deer caught in the headlights.
With a dark window at his back, Adriano Ruffo is sitting in a large wingback chair, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. On either side of him are massive bookshelves, filled to capacitywith leather-bound tomes. Nearby, hanging over a chest of drawers, an ornate vintage-looking wall sconce casts its warm glow onto the left side of Mr. Ruffo’s face. His other side remains in shadow. The lighting effect is unnerving. It’s as if his face is split in two. He looks so intense, devilish even. Definitely unlike the Adriano Ruffo I’ve come to expect.
But as much as that dramatic visual has captured my attention, it’s the body of a dead woman at his feet that has me paralyzed.
“Please.” Mr. Ruffo motions with the tumbler in his hand toward another chair to the left of him. “Have a seat.”
I try to swallow, but my throat seems to have turned into a desert. This is hardly the first dead body I’ve ever seen, and I don’t get squeamish at the sight of blood, but I can’t make myself move as I stare at the silencer-outfitted gun casually resting beside Mr. Ruffo on the side table. Right next to a bottle of Macallan and another empty glass.
Slowly, so slow that it seems to take an eternity, I drag my gaze up and meet his eyes.
“Please.” His tone is calm, friendly even, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind… It’s an order. With the promise of dire consequences if I don’t do as he says.
Mr. Ruffo’s eyes remain steady on me as I take a tentative step forward, all while every nerve in my body is ready to snap. To flee. It takes everything in me not to look back at the dead body on the floor.Oh God, what did I walk into?
Another hesitant step. Mr. Ruffo’s gaze hasn’t shifted once, and mine has been utterly locked with his. I approach on shaky legs while he continues to observe me. I can feel the weight of that stare as if it’s a physical thing. It’s disturbing. Terrifying. Nevertheless, I can’t make myself look away.
Everything I heard about this man… Everything I assumed from my spying… It all left me so certain he was unlike other men ofla Famiglia. After years around Mafia brutes, I was so sure my “bad guy radar” was stellar. Not once did my inner alarm raise a warning about Adriano Ruffo. Cool. Calm. Collected. That’s him. That’s Adriano Ruffo. Billionaire—yes. Egotistical—never. A killer? Not in a million years. Always kind. Cultured. Civilized. Genteel.
Normal.
Just like now, as he relaxes in his chair and brings the glass of spirits to his lips. But his eyes… God, his eyes… Ice blue… So striking. So brilliant. A shade I’ve only seen in images of ancient glaciers. And just as cold. Distant. Hardened. There isn’t a hint of any warmth in them. No concern. No sign of worry. Not even fiery anger. Only frightening predatory intent in the frigid depths. We’re snared in some messed-up staredown, and I’m silently reminding myself not to blink.
