Page 70 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

My breath hitches. She’s right. I’d seen her text but was in no mood to respond.

“Something is bothering you, I know. Mind sharing? Wait—how is your hot bodyguard?”

As she continues to bombard me with questions, I realize that there are a lot of things I haven’t filled her in on yet.

“I’ll call you later and tell you all about it.” Saying it would only make me feel worse, so I steer the conversation and we have a mini chat about other stuff before I end the call.

When my phone screen lights up again, I see a notification from the mayor. It’s a reminder that the themed event the mayor’s wife is hosting is today!

Good afternoon, Miss Rossi. Just a friendly reminder of tonight’s themed event at my private residence on 84th Street. My wife and I are looking forward to your presence.

I contemplate not going, mostly because he made an appearance on national TV, vowing to bring Adriano to justice without doing any real due diligence. After all, I was Adriano’s client—he worked for my family.

And the irony cuts deep right now. I'm actually giving the benefit of the doubt to the one man who screwed me over, both literally and figuratively!

Yet, the business-driven side of me overshadows my thoughts. He’s reaching out to the CEO of Elané, not the daughter of the Rossis. This is what I’ve always wanted. The recognition…the legitimacy. I shouldn’t let anything get in the way of that, not even myself.

Plus, I need this anyway. It’s a good escape from all this mess in my life. With that, I freshen up, and in no time, I’m dressed in a tailored emerald-green sheath dress, conservative enough to be respectful but sophisticated enough to command attention.

Paired with nude pumps and a small, beaded clutch, I make my way out of my room. Enzo’s not in sight, but I know when he hears news of my departure, he’ll rejoice that I’m finally out of my room.

There are two guards when I get to the garage—a veteran who survived the whole massacre and a new recruit whose name refuses to stick. And Peter, who luckily evaded the tragedy because he took a leave to care for his sick father.

“Mayor’s residence on 84th,” I say as Peter and the recruit guard jump into the car, but not before holding the door open for me.

The journey is long and silent, but eventually we arrive at the mayor’s fortress, with tall, meticulously manicured hedges acting as walls. High-level security details patrol the vast perimeter, contrasting sharply with the beautiful floral arrangements decorating the entire space.

I’m still taking in the serenity of the estate when a young aide approaches with a practiced smile. “Miss Rossi. Right this way. The mayor is expecting you.”

We pass through the large oak doors, the smell of wood polish, starched linen, and something faintly floral hitting my nose. Music, people in elegant attire, and walls of dark panels frame the foyer, which opens up to a sweeping staircase.

Soft classical music drowns out the sound of my heels against the parquet floor as I trail behind the aide, taking in portraits of stern-looking men lined up on the wall of the staircase.

The mayor and his wife are probably upstairs receiving guests.

We arrive at a door, and for some reason, anxiety starts to seep into my gut. The aide knocks twice, then swings the door open for me. Inside is a formal dining room, the table set exclusively for two with expensive cutlery and wine.

Mayor Alex Thompson rises from his seat in a well-tailored suit, flashing me the brightest smile I’ve ever seen on him.

“Elena, so glad you could make it. You look radiant.”

I shoot him a smile of my own, eyes darting involuntarily around the room for his wife. Why are there only two chairs, and where’s his wife?

“Mr. Mayor,” I say, walking until I’m only a few feet from him. “Thank you for the invitation. Where’s your wife? I looked forward to seeing her again.”

Something briefly flashes in his eyes. “Ah, a last-minute migraine, I’m afraid. She’s absolutely devastated. After taking her medication, she had to rest for a while and insisted we carry on without her.”

An odd sensation creeps down my spine as he nudges me to take a seat. Somehow I don’t want to.

“That’s a shame.” My tone maintains a steady cadence as I sit. “I would have really loved to have her here. Perhaps we could reschedule for when she’s feeling better?”

His smile tightens. “Nonsense. She absolutely hates being a party stopper.”

I swallow, then nod as he takes his own seat.

“It’s unfortunate what has happened to Adriano Bellandini. Killing the prosecutor, a supposed mafia don,” he starts, clearing his throat. “I know he worked for your family. Tell me, did you guys ever suspect he’d do something so rash?”

I let my smile drop. This isn’t what his wife would want him to say, I’m sure.