Chapter 8

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Saverio

W hen Kevin pulls up at my house, a man gets out of a car parked in the street and leans on the hood. He crosses his arms and his ankles as he watches our approach. He's dressed in civilian clothes, but his cocky stance and the cheap suit scream detective.

"You can drop me off here," I tell Kevin. "Pull into the garage and wait there. I'll be leaving in ten."

He acknowledges the instruction with a nod.

I measure my visitor before Kevin brings the car to a stop, taking in the brush cut of his blond hair and the meaty muscles beneath his jacket. It's the bulk men who use steroids pack on, not the hard-cut definition of diligent and strenuous exercise.

He flips back a pair of aviator glasses when I get out of the car, eyeing me with a smirk when I walk over.

My tone is brusque. "Can I help you?"

"Detective Jordan." He brushes his jacket to the side and flashes a badge attached to his belt. "Do you have a minute?"

"I'm leaving for an appointment soon."

His tawny brown eyes hold a challenge. "I'll make it quick."

My smile is condescending. "Best get started then."

"How well do you know Luigi Bianchi?"

I raise a brow. "I'm sure you already know his daughter and I were together."

"Yes." He studies me closely. "It was quite the breakup, but you managed to keep it out of the news."

My smile stretches. He's needling me to get a rise out of me in the hope I'll lose my temper. Men act unpredictably when they're out of control. They can let things slip they never meant to say.

When I don't react, his jaw sets in a hard line. "It's safe to assume you know them rather well."

"Define well."

"You must be close to the family if you're still seeing them after Rachele Bianchi dropped you like a hot potato."

Years of practice taught me how to push my emotions down. "I'm still friends with Giorgio."

"Both you and Giorgio knew Mr. Lewis, the late owner of the Lewis accounting firm."

I don't deny it or ask how he knows. He's either faking knowing it for a fact or he questioned the staff at the firm. "We met him briefly."

"How did you meet?"

"My girlfriend recommended him. She works there."

He narrows his gaze. "Ms. Brennan, right?"

"That's correct."

Tilting his head, he adopts a mock frown. "How long have you and Ms. Brennan been together?"

"Not long. As you just stated, I came out of a relationship a short while ago."

"What business did you see Mr. Lewis about?"

"I was hoping he could manage the accounting of a new application development company that Giorgio and I co-own."

"Could he?"

"No." I look him straight in the eye. "He said he was too busy."

"He didn't have the time?"

"He didn't have the capacity to take on more business."

"His murder must've come as a shock to you," he says, openly mocking me with his toothy grin.

I opt for honesty. "Not particularly. People get killed all the time."

"But surely not people you know intimately."

Yeah, I've seen a lot of people I knew intimately take a bullet, and more than half of those times, the bullet came from my gun. However, I don't take the bait by admitting that I knew Lewis well. "I only met him that once."

"Where were you on the night of his murder?"

"As I told the officer who questioned me, I had dinner at Rusty's before walking Anya home."

"She didn't join you for dinner?"

"She wanted to work late." I check my watch. "I'm afraid your minute is up. Was there anything else?"

"No." He straightens and drops his glasses back onto his face. "Not for now." Walking around the car, he adds as he opens the door, "Have a nice day, Mr. De Luca."

I watch him go, committing every detail to memory. It's always good to know your enemies. I have enough friends on the force, but I don't lack adversaries.

After a quick shower, I dress in a pair of jeans and a sweater. As no one can know that Giorgio and I will be in Boston, I booked a private helicopter with a pilot I trust. We don't want the cops to make a connection between Lewis's murder and the men we're about to execute.

While I pull on my boots, I send Giorgio a message to let him know I'll pick him up. I won't rely on him to make it to the helipad on his own. I missed enough flights due to his tardiness. No wonder Luigi needs me to babysit him. Giorgio is a loose cannon. He's untrustworthy and unpredictable, incapable of taking responsibility for his actions. Putting your faith in him is a mistake. The only person Luigi can trust is me. As much as he respects me, he also resents me a little for that. He hates that Giorgio isn't more like me, because I'm more like Luigi than his own son will ever be.

Luigi saw the qualities in me he recognized in himself when Giorgio befriended me in middle school. The private school was expensive, but I made well above average grades in the public school I attended, and the principal recommended me for a scholarship at the posh establishment. Giorgio got picked on for being stupid and behaving like a brute until I taught him how to use his fists.

My mother was always sick, and despite the fact that my father worked around the clock, there was never enough money for food and medicine. That's why I started stealing, first shoplifting and later pickpocketing. I told my father I earned the food and money with casual jobs after school.

Every penny I took from the purses of well-dressed people with fancy cars went into taking care of my mother and putting another meal on the table. All I wanted was to lighten my father's burden and make my mother well again.

The more money I made, the more reckless I became. I started buying myself snazzy clothes and hanging out with Giorgio's friends. I never told Giorgio the real reason I stayed more at his house than at my own. From the minute I saw his younger sister with her black hair and red lips, I was smitten. I'd set my target on Rachele as far back as then, trying to win Luigi's approval in any way I could, working toward the day he'd give me his permission to court his daughter.

My efforts paid off. Luigi took a liking to me. At the same time, he couldn't help comparing Giorgio and me, and Giorgio always came up short. For that, Luigi begrudged me. He's always had these conflicting feelings toward me—respecting and liking me while hating and resenting me at the same time. It's like a grenade living in his chest. I never know when it's going to blow.

During our adolescent years, before Giorgio had to get involved in the business and the conflict warring inside Luigi was easier to ignore, he took us to high-end restaurants and parties where the women wore enough diamonds to fill a jewelry store. Luigi took it upon himself to teach me how to dress. On our fifteenth birthdays, he took Giorgio and me to his tailor. It was the first suit I owned, a proper three-piece with a double-breasted jacket. I became someone I never thought I'd be. For once, I was popular, a part of the in-crowd. I had no shortage of female attention or proposals, not that I wanted it. I only had eyes for Rachele. I was on my way to the top, and I thought I was invincible. Until, one day, I got myself caught.

I used the phone the cops gave me to call my father. He hung up on me and never called back.

Luigi bailed me out. He gave me a pat on the back and organized a party to celebrate my inauguration . That's the first time Rachele looked at me as if I were someone and not just a poor kid with no prospects or wealth.

When my mother found out where the money came from, she turned her face away and said she never wanted to see me again. My father took the news that I was working for Luigi as if he'd learned I had cancer. He told me I was dead to him and ordered me in a flat, dejected voice to leave the house and to never come back.

Once again, Luigi came to the rescue. He took me in. Giorgi and I grew up like brothers. The men respected me as a part of the family. The rest is history.

I continued to send money to my parents, making monthly transfers to my father's bank account, but he always returned the funds. And then my mother died without giving me a chance to say goodbye. To this day, my father lives in that house. I drive by there from time to time. The yard is still messy, and the paint on the walls is forever flaking. He looks older than his age, stooped and used up from working his hands to the bone. There's no one to lend him a hand, no one who visits.

A single call can change that, but he never did pick up the phone after that day I got arrested. Like he told me, I'm dead to him now. I learned to accept his decision. What I do know, however, is that there's no fucking way I'm ending up like that. I never want to watch the woman I love die a little each day because I can't take care of her. I'd commit unspeakable crimes before I send my children to school with empty stomachs and threadbare clothes. If the money I make is considered filthy, I prefer to be dirty. I'd rather be detested than adored. I'd sooner go to hell than suffer in righteous poverty.

It's difficult to say when exactly I became so corrupted. My intentions for stealing were clear at first. It was born from helpless anger as I was forced to see my mother suffer day after day while slowly wasting away. Then there was Rachele and the need not only to impress her but also to prove that I fit in her circles. The money was always secondary, not that it wasn't nice to have. Now that there's nothing left, the money is everything. All that remains is the power. I climbed too high to give it up. I'm at the top of the chain, one step below Luigi on par with Giorgio. Falling from that kind of height is fatal. If anyone succeeds in taking my place, he's not going to let me live. It'll be too dangerous, an uncalculated risk. No, if I go down, it'll be with a bullet embedded in my skull.

I give myself a once-over in the mirror, making sure my grooming is impeccable before I shove a few clean outfits in a bag and head out. As I commanded, Kevin waits in the garage. There's no doubt that the cops are having me watched, and it's best not to let them see me leave with a bag. We'll shake them off on the way to the helipad.

I'll order Kevin to stay in front of Giorgio's house. We'll be out the back and on our way before they catch on. To be on the safe side, we'll change cars in the underground parking lot of one of Luigi's clubs. The security is top notch, and the places are swept for bugs and hidden cameras daily.

En route to Giorgio's place, I use a burner phone to send a message to the pilot, letting him know we'll take off in an hour.

Giorgio's housekeeper opens the door when I ring his bell. She shows me to the study and retreats quietly.

The smell of her perfume reaches me before I enter the room. Giorgio leans on the wall next to the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. Rachele stands in the middle of the floor wearing a red dress that hugs her figure and lipstick to match. Her black hair curls over her shoulders.

I turn to Giorgio. "What's she doing here?"

He shrugs. "She asked me to tell her when you'd be here."

He should know fucking better. "So, you did?"

Rachele steps forward. "It wouldn't have been necessary if you answered your phone."

I pin her with a cool look. "Maybe I don't answer because I have nothing to say to you."

"Christ," Giorgio mutters, rolling his eyes.

Rachele balls her hands at her sides. "There's a wedding coming up. Elena is getting married."

"Yes." My tone is dry. "I got the invitation."

She scrutinizes me with her dark eyes. "Papa wants you to be there. It's important for the business with the alliance he's making with the groom's family."

"If Luigi wants me there, I'll be there."

She lifts her chin. "I'll be there."

"Naturally." My smile lacks emotion. "Elena is your cousin."

"With Archibald," she says with meaning.

"What do you want me to say?" I raise a brow. "Congratulations?"

"Jesus, Sav." She pulls a face and lifts her hands in that ‘What the fuck?' manner of hers. "Don't be such an asshole."

"Thanks for the heads up, but I don't give a damn who your plus one is."

She huffs, lifting her face to the ceiling before looking at me again. "You can't make a scene."

I chuckle. "What makes you think I'll make a scene?"

She pinches her lips into a thin line. "Because you were violent when you came to get your stuff." She ads with an accusation in her tone, "You threatened him."

"Did I?"

"Oh, come on. Cut the bullshit. You cleaned the counter with a swipe of your arm, breaking God knows how many plates and glasses. You said you'd stab out his eyes, tear off his limbs, and put his dick through a meat grinder if you ever caught him in the same room as you."

"Did that frighten the coward? Is that why he's hiding behind your skirts, sending you to do his bidding?"

"He's not a coward." She crosses her arms. "He's an artist. He's sensitive."

"An artist?" I laugh. "Is that what you call those atrocities he finger paints?"

Her reply is defensive. "He's exhibiting soon."

"Where? In the upmarket loft his daddy had to buy for him because he doesn't make a dollar by selling those things he tries to pass as paintings?"

"It's a private exhibition," she snaps. "So what?"

"Meaning you're going to invite your friends, and they'll be obliged to buy an ugly piece of shit portraying some entitled weakling's inner turmoil when the pampered pussy never suffered a day in his life."

Untangling her arms, she steps up to me. "Fuck you, Sav."

"No thanks. As clichéd as it sounds, I don't do sloppy seconds."

She looks ready to slap me. I dare her with my gaze. God knows, I'll welcome the sting. I can use a little pain to take off the edge.

And just like that, my mind goes to Anya and the sight of her half-exposed naked ass and the silky softness of her skin under my palms. Vividly, I recall how those perfect globes fitted against my groin. I go hard in a second, the memory powerful enough to elicit the untimely response.

"That's enough," Giorgio says, flicking the ash of his cigarette into the cold fireplace when there's an ashtray on the table right next to him. "Everyone is going to behave."

Rachele backtracks, putting distance between us, but her fiery gaze is glued to mine.

"Right, Rach?" Giorgio prompts.

"Right," she says, narrowing her eyes in challenge.

"Right," I say, because honestly? I couldn't give a fuck. That ship has sailed.

Just how little the mention of that cocksucker's name affects me compared to a few weeks ago shocks me. I'm a far cry from the man who downed a bottle of brandy and bashed every chair and table in the bar to pieces. I'm not the rabid animal Giorgio had to drag away and handcuff in the cellar until I sobered up lest I killed an innocent bystander or injured myself. The wild man around whom everyone ran circles is hardly recognizable to me.

I either got over it damn quickly, or I never cared as deeply as I thought. Maybe it's because I had to push my feelings down when Detective Jordan questioned me, and I'm still operating on an apathetic level. Or maybe I'm simply too focused on the task ahead.

Whatever the case, when I turn for the door and tell Giorgio, "Put out that cigarette and let's go," Rachele doesn't even enter my thoughts.

All I can think about on the way to the river is my new toy and how soon I can get back to playing cat and mouse with her.