Carlo only watches.
He is the one I need to worry about.
Rocco is temper. Damiano is resentment. Carlo is patience. Carlo is a man who could wait years to take a shot and not miss.
Which means he is the one who understands first.
I can see it happen.
The smallest shift behind his eyes.
He looks at the folder in front of me.
I can practically hear Adrian, watching me through a monitor, telling me to stop enjoying this so much.
I am not enjoying it.
Well, not exactly.
But there is a satisfaction in sitting across from the men who brought death to my home and watching them realize I was not the opening they thought I was.
“You invited us here,” Carlo says.
“Yes.”
“Under false pretenses.”
“You came under false names,” I point out. “So let’s not get too picky about formalities.”
Carlo’s mouth curves faintly. “You do sound like him.”
“You keep saying that like it’s an insult.”
Rocco laughs once, but it’s ugly and vicious. “You think you’re clever.”
“Oh, I’m pretty damn clever,” I say.
His eyes flare, and I feel a spark of triumph.
Angry men make mistakes. Papà taught me that.
Damiano’s fingers flex on the arm of his wheelchair. “You have no idea what you are playing with.”
“I think I have a very good idea.” I flip open the folder and slide one document across the table. “Costa Meridian Holdings.”
Rocco’s gaze drops.
I slide another.
“Vitale Shore Trust.”
Damiano’s jaw tightens.
Another.
“Valenti Renewal Group.”
Carlo’s eyes flick to it.
