Page 17 of King of War

I keep my expression neutral. “I got out of the way of a bullet, boss, like anyone in that situation would. We knew he was armed. I told Vinny to wait for me. I shouted for him to duck. He wasn’t fast enough.” I don’t apologize. That’s never been my style, and it would be my guilt talking. And as far as Carmine is concerned, I have nothing to feel guilty for.

He shakes his head, seeming to veer between anger and despair. “The Bertellis are all dead though, yes?”

“All of them. I used the Makarovs to pin it on the Russians, which I believe is credible after Joseph’s incident at their hotel. But even Ivan isn’t unhinged enough to want to take any credit for Vinny, so this could muddy the waters a little.”

He rests his clasped hands on the desk in front of him, staring into space, the twitch in his right eye the only movement. “I will speak to Ivan,” is all he says. But the quiet confidence he says it with sets my teeth on edge.

Did he and the pakhan cook this whole thing up together, with me as their fucking pawn? What the did the Bertellis do to make Carmine want them all dead? “Oscar and Vinny had an interesting exchange,” I say.

Carmine’s head snaps up, his eyes laser focused on me once more. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s not just grief and sadness I see in them now. I know fear when I see it, and I’ve never seen it in the don before. “What kind of exchange?”

I have no idea how much, if anything, Vinny knew about what Oscar allegedly had on his father, but with no Vinny here to back up my story either way, it would be stupid not to use whatever leverage I have. “I didn’t quite catch the whole conversation, but Vinny said something like Oscar was running his mouth, like he might have something on you, right before he shot him.”

“Vinny shot Oscar?”

I nod. “He did you proud today.”

He chews on his top lip, and it reminds me of the only time I ever saw my father cry. I push that shit away and refocus. After a moment to compose himself, Carmine speaks again. “What exactly did you hear, Enzo? This is important.”

I close my eyes like I’m deep in thought, mostly so that he won’t notice that I’m trying to fabricate the memory rather than recall it. “Vinny said I know you’ve been running your mouth, but you’ve got nothing, old man. And like I said, Oscar looked pretty terrified.”

Carmine runs his tongue over his teeth, slow and deliberate. There it is—his tell. The duplicitous fuck is keeping something from me.

“Is there anything I need to know about, boss? Something that needs shutting down?”

He shakes his head. “Oscar was always running his mouth about someone or something, no?”

I simply nod, but now I know for certain the don is hiding something. Why, and what the fuck is it? Surely to god it has nothing to do with Rayne coming back.

Rayne! I groan inwardly. The whole fucking reason for this mess. Maybe I should have let Carmine and my father deal with her all those years ago. Then I wouldn’t be trapped working for this man I can sometimes barely stand. “Is there anything else, boss?” I ask him.

He shakes his head, his eyes wet with unshed tears, and then he ushers me wordlessly from the room. As I head back to my car, I take one last look around Carmine’s grand mansion. A palace to anyone else but a prison to me. I’ve hated every single day of the past six years working for him. Because before then it was a choice, and then it became a debt—the leash he keeps wrapped around my throat and calls loyalty.

And still, if I had to make that choice again—her life or my freedom—I’d choose her. Every time. Without hesitation or regret. I loved her once. You can’t truly hate someone unless you once loved them enough to let them break you.

Chapter

Seven

RAYNE

The doors of the private elevator slide open with a soft chime, and I step out into the lobby, the ominous shadow of Luca right behind me. He is, in fact, just as I remembered. A hulking brute of a man, slightly shorter than his oldest brother but still over six feet. A man who barely speaks but has a surprisingly soothing presence.

The first thing I notice about the place is the smell, or, more accurately, the absence of one. It’s not unpleasant exactly, simply sterile. There are no candles or fresh flowers, no lingering trace of home-cooked food, or life. And in that regard, it’s as far from my studio apartment in San Francisco as it can be. Of course, it’s vastly different in so many other ways too. Mine the square footage of a Winnebago, and this a football field.

Luca urges me to walk ahead, through a pair of white double doors, and now the living room opens in front of me like something from a fancy magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, all that glittering expensive real estate stretched out beyond it. The furniture is the kind you’d see in a magazine spread too—low leather sofas and plump cushions, a slab of black and gold marble masquerading as a coffee table, some abstract art hanging on one wall that probably cost more than my apartment. Everything is cream and black. Tasteful, but cold.

There’s not a single photograph in here. The books on the coffee table are those arty kinds, none of their spines cracked. There’s nothing in this room that that says a person actually lives here. There’s a camera tucked into the moulding near the door, and another by the window. Of course, the place isn’t a home, it’s a fortress. I could already tell that from the private garage and then the elevator that all needed access codes, not to mention the reinforced elevator doors.

“This way,” Luca says, his voice rough the way that a voice can get when it’s barely used.

He points toward a door on the left and I make my way through it, then through a kitchen that looks like it’s never been cooked in, all polished chrome and white wood on marble. There are two further rooms leading off it, and Luca directs me toward one of them. I open the door and step inside, half-expecting more of the same cold showroom perfection, but find something else entirely.

Now this is more like it. The light is warmer and more welcoming, coming from a couple of lamps rather than the cold overhead spotlighting that makes everywhere else feel too stark. One wall is simply lined floor to ceiling with books. There’s a worn sofa on the opposite wall, the leather creased from use, and armchairs. Soft, inviting armchairs, one with a blanket thrown over the arm. There’s a record player too, and a stack of vinyl leaning against it. I already know without looking the stack is packed with Bob Dylan and Van Morrison. This part of the apartment is both welcoming and unsettling, feeling like the space where Enzo’s real self might live. I wonder how much time he spends in here compared to the rest of the house.

As prisons go, it’s not all that bad. I go to the window and stare out across the skyline and the glittering lights of the Strip in the distance. View’s pretty damn good too. It’s not San Francisco though. Not my home. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I was there right now. Wishing I’d never come back to Vegas at all. It’s not that I’m scared of being here. If Enzo wanted to kill me, he would have done it long before now. But I’m pissed at the inconvenience of being torn from my life. Indignant that my arrogant, conceited asshole of an ex-fiancé thinks he needs to bring me here at all.

Luca showed me to the nearest bathroom, which I gratefully used to clean up a little, then ushered me back to the den and told me to sit and stay, like I’m a dog. Then he offered me some food and water, also like a dog. I opted for some sparkling water in a sealed bottle—a girl can’t be too careful, especially with a Medici.