She doesn’t want to go to Anna.
She feels unsafe.
The thought alone boils my blood.
Before I can intervene in a manner unsuitable for a backstage area filled with minors, a reason for Camille’s sudden change of heart regarding her mother presents. The witch who’s given me hell all week during mediation appears like a ghost stalking the hallways of a morgue.
Carmela Moretti, widow of a powerful American don, has a reputation as vicious as a rabies-infected mutt. She glides through the backstage chaos, owning the space. Her eyes are cold, and her smile is thin and poisonous.
Camille shrinks further behind my thigh the more her grandmother approaches. She clutches my pants with white-knuckled fear, and every inch of her shakes.
I can’t mistake her fear, and neither can anyone else.
The discovery of my daughter’s taunter won’t end well for Carmela. I’m already plotting ways to kill her, and my wish may be granted sooner rather than later. The boss of all bosses hates bullies, and he’s witnessing every tiny shiver coursing through my daughter’s body.
After twisting to face Anna, I force my voice to come out steady, even though the protocols I wish I didn’t have to follow are a chain around my ribs, tightening every time I think about breaking it. “Comeby my family’s compound Monday morning. We have matters to discuss.”
With a roll of her eyes, Carmela steps in front of her daughter, forcing herself back in the forefront of a situation that has nothing to do with her. “Unless it is to discuss transferring guardianship,wehave nothingto talk about.”
I snort out a short and humorless laugh when Henry orders four of his men to my side. He knows how close I am to removing my gun and popping a bullet between Carmela’s brows, so he ordered his goons close enough to physically restrain me if I try.
My anger is so potent I doubt anything could stop me but my wish to ensure Lucia and Camille are far from danger before all hell breaks loose.
Killing a member of the Cosa Nostra without first getting permission is the fastest way to ignite a mafia war.
Why do you think Edoardo is still alive?
“Monday morning,” I reiterate after locking eyes with Anna over Carmela’s shoulder, my words minced through a stern jaw.
Carmela’s squinted gaze shoots to Henry, a man whose word can rewrite alliances with a single breath. “Say something. He’s poisoning my granddaughter against me and her mother. I demand you to intervene.”
Henry doesn’t glower at her callous words, nor does he blink. He simply studies her with a stillness that even seasoned leaders find unnerving.
I keep my eyes locked on the imp from my daughter’s nightmares, but I feel the moment Henry’s attention shifts to me. The valve in my chest releases the pressured air zipping down my spine. He knows what he saw as well as I do. He knows what Carmela is guilty of and the steps that need to be taken to punish her for her crimes.
He’s just as unsure as I am if Anna is unaware of the abuse or turning a blind eye.
Carmela’s head jerks up when Henry sides with me. “Monday morning.”
Her hearing won’t be held in a civilian court. It’ll occur in a place where apologies and excuses don’t smooth things over. This is the Court of Lineage, which handles family violations and legacy breaches that can ripple through generations. Henry’s rulings are binding, and his punishments are stern.
Having him on my side is only second best to killing Carmela slowly and painfully.
With Henry’s tone leaving no room for argument, color drains from Carmela’s face before she pushes through the crowd, her strides brisk and shaky.
Only once she leaves does Henry return his focus to me. He doesn’t say anything, but his stare speaks volumes. As much as I hate to admit this, mafia law has protected Camille in the past, and it’ll continue to do so in the future.
Before I can nod, my phone buzzes. My brows knit when I notice who is calling. Marco only ever reaches out when trouble is brewing.
He’s babysitting Lucia tonight, so I answer his call immediately.
“What is it?”
“I lost sight of Lucia.” His wheezy breathes whistle down the line. It sounds like he’s running. “She must have noticed I was tracking her. She slipped down a side alley and then fucking vanished. I don’t know where she is.”
“Where?”
A brief stretch of silence presents, then: “On the Upper East Side.” He fights his subconscious for a few seconds before he adds, “She was carrying her backpack.”
