37. Stephano

37

STEPHANO

It's been a week since Franco ripped Gigi's business to shreds with a smear campaign. It's been a week since Gigi and I started sleeping together every night, doing everything you possibly can in bed without breaking her terms. It's a challenge, and I'm on the verge of losing my goddamn mind and all control when it comes to her.

Here's the funny thing about sex. When you can't have the real thing, it's all you think of. We might do everything else, but I'm not sated. Which means I think of it all the fucking time.

To say I'm fucked is an understatement. I'm in love with my wife. The wife I've vowed to never have. The wife who plans to leave me as soon as she can be safe back in Europe. The wife I've promised to let go.

Worst thing is, she's the wife I've promised to protect at all costs now everything we've put in place is about to be tested. I read the message on my phone again.

Benedict: Meeting at Matty's asap. Party's starting.

I stalk out of my office as I pull on my jacket. Gigi is sitting by the window, a fresh canvas on the easel. This is the calm realm we've been orbiting in. She's painting while I'm supposedly working in my office. I'm working myself up every day with her, break myself down in the gym, battling for control over my mind and body when it comes to her. Just seeing her sit there in an old T-shirt of mine and panties is enough to make my cock rise in salute.

"I'm going to Matteo's. You want to come with me?"

She lowers the paintbrush and glances at me. "Right now?"

"Yes."

Her hair is gathered in a messy pile on her head, and it bobs as she shrugs. "Why? We were there yesterday."

"Something's come up."

"I'll pass. Honestly, I know Carla needs me, but?—"

"It's fine." I've caught on that my wife is an introvert and needs her space. It would seem the two women have almost become estranged in the past weeks, which I hope they don't blame me for. I run my hand up her naked thigh and trace the line of her panties as I press a soft kiss to her temple. This is so close to a real marriage now, even I buy into it. "Go put on pants."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Tony?"

"Yes, angel, Tony."

"Does he have to be here?"

"Yep." I pocket my phone. Whenever I leave, a bodyguard stays with her. She's been hesitant to go out, and I'm surprised she hasn't gone mad with cabin fever yet. "I won't be long."

I watch as she takes the stairs until she's out of view and wait until she comes down again, this time with yoga pants on. I let Tony in and make my way to Matteo's place. By the time I walk into his office, the whole gang has gathered. It's weird how special projects like these seem to pull us together stronger with each round.

Matteo hands me a printout as I take a seat. "There've been some developments."

I glance down the pages. It's a record of someone's internet search history. Lines and lines of searches for Vito Rossi, Vittorio Rossi, then copies of emails sent into the abyss with one-liner questions. Where are you? Are you okay? It's all as anonymous as it can get, but one thing is clear: the messages are becoming more and more urgent.

"This is from Carla's laptop?"

"Yep," Benedict says. "She's starting to sound desperate there, don't you think?"

"Vito Rossi was her bodyguard," I say. "He helped them escape Italy, and he has no clue where they are. That's what Gigi told me."

Gigi has been slow to share the details of everything exactly as they happened weeks ago, but I've been able to put the puzzle pieces together to sketch a picture of that night. My wife is indeed a brave, kick-ass woman.

"He was going to go look out for Don Trapani after he made sure the women got to the airport. By the sound of it, Don Trapani might have been tortured that night."

"One man against Franco Fiore and his ring?" Matteo asks.

"Yeah." I sigh. "He's probably dead." A moment of silence stretches as we digest this inevitability. We might have welcomed the Trapanis into our fold, but it's not without risks. If Vito Rossi was more to Carla than her bodyguard, she would be mourning him. "That would explain her mood lately."

"And what a mood it's been," Matteo says with a grunt.

"Time will tell," Dominic says. "If there's anything new, I'll let you know."

"Do you have something similar from Gigi's laptop or phone?" I ask, turning to Benedict.

"No, nothing to raise a red flag. She's only been browsing endless art-related websites, auction houses, basically anything related to her business. She's sent no emails, hasn't even bothered to log into her account."

I nod. Ever since I bought her those art supplies, it's as if Gigi has shut out the outside world. She's in some type of mourning, too, except she still intends to go back to Europe and pick up the shreds of what's left of her old life.

"But in other news," Benedict says, "we're finally getting traction on Franco. He's sending a scout our way."

"A scout?" I ask.

"Yes. We commented on an online article about Gigi selling fakes. Now, Vincenzo Trapani has tapped in and is coming over to see if our hint that Gigi Trapani is trying to set up shop in Boston holds true." Benedict has his laptop connected to the projector, and he throws an image on the screen. "This is Gigi and Carla's brother."

I take in the picture of a tanned man, average height, five o'clock stubble, shortly cropped dark hair, and dressed in a way I can only approve of. Nothing gives away he's Mafia, except the dark circles under his eyes. Someone isn't getting enough sleep.

"Party's starting," Dominic says with a grin.

The heat is on. Vincenzo Trapani is the loser who sold out his sisters and whose face I'm going to rearrange, for starters. Gigi will never be safe while her stepbrother is alive.

"When is he arriving?" I ask, hoping Benedict will somehow have this intel.

"He arrived this morning, got flagged by my team working on border control," he says, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. "And you are taking Gigi to the opening of an art exhibition on Friday night, at Kowalski's Fine Art. By the look of her browsing data, she's burning to go."