Chapter 21
Damiano
I am mid-email, trying to coordinate the chaos of the clubs I left in Buenos Aires, when the door clicks open. Lorenzo walks in with a manila envelope in his hand.
"Che c’è?" I ask, not bothering to lift my gaze from the screen.
"I need you to take a look at this." His voice is flat, devoid of its usual sharp edge.
The sound of a heavy manila envelope slapping against the wood makes me pause. I narrow my eyes at the paper before looking up at my brother, who stands there, watching me like he’s waiting for a fuse to catch.
"I think your girlfriend’s brother knew Nicolo a lot better than he let on," Lorenzo says.
I frown. My heart hammers a sudden, violent rhythm against my ribs. I reach for the envelope, the paper feeling rough against my skin.
"Ma chi minchia..." I mutter, the air leaving my lungs as the first photo slides out.
At the center of the frame is unmistakably Nicolo Guidicelli. Even through the grain of a surveillance shot, his blue eyes fixed in that intense, predatory stare I know all too well. He is mid-handshake with another man. They are in an ornate hotel lobby, the kind of place where men go to hide in plain sight. Nicolo’sgaze is locked onto the man opposite him, showing a level of cautious appraisal he does not give to just anyone. The other man has his back to the camera, his broad shoulders draped in a dark, expensive suit.
I do not have to wonder for long who it was. I slide the next photo out. It is a profile shot from a restaurant table. They are sitting across from each other, lean and focused, lost in conversation. I would know that face in a crowd of thousands. The soft line of the nose, the specific set of the brow, all traits he shared with the woman upstairs.
Mateo Flores.
The air in the office suddenly feels too thin, smelling of old paper and the bitter dregs of my espresso.
"When was this taken?" I ask.
"A few months ago," Lorenzo answers matter-of-factly. He finally sinks into the chair across from me, crossing his legs with a casualness that irritates me.
"Who gave you this, Enzo?"
"It was sent anonymously months ago. At the time, I did not give a damn who Nicolo was breaking bread with, especially a stranger. We ran the face through the database, no business ties, no criminal record. So, I flagged it and moved on."
"Anonymously?"
Lorenzo shrugs, a gesture of indifference.
"I only realized it was the dead brother when I looked into your woman’s files again. I saw the family photos and the connection clicked."
I stare at the image until the edges blur. The betrayal is a physical weight in my gut. How could he be this stupid? He had everything. A successful business, a clean life, a sister who worshipped the ground he walked on. He was not a greedy man. He did not need Nicolo’s business.
"You’re sure there was no business?" I ask, my grip tightening on the photo until the paper crinkles.
"Nothing in the books," Lorenzo says, his eyes dark. "It looked...friendly. And Nicolo had not set foot in Argentina since that meeting, at least not until right before the dead brother reported to you."I look at Mateo’s smiling face in the grain of the photo and feel a surge of pure, unadulterated rage. He played me. He played the "concerned brother" while he was dancing with the devil himself. He put a target on Katarina’s back the moment he shook that hand.
"Che idiota..." I growl. He did not just risk his own life. He invited a wolf into his home and left the door open for his sister.
Just then, the double doors of my office burst open.
"Papa," Lorenzo says, pushing himself up from the chair the moment the door slams open.
Don Cotrini is a formidable man, even at seventy. His presence commands any room effortlessly. He walks, each step slow and deliberate, as if he’s leading a procession only he can see. His face, usually carved from cold calculation, is twisted with barely contained fury.
"Uh-oh," I whisper as he takes predatory strides toward me.
He ignores Lorenzo completely, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a scorching intensity that has not faded in two years. I drop the photos on the desk, the sound muted by the sudden, suffocating silence.
"Disgraziato!" The word is a hammer blow, spat out in the thick dialect. "You leave us for two years. Two years of silence! You abandon your duty, your name, and your family, only to return with this?"
