Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

Angelo

At first light, I drive to Uncle Nico's house. It's a Mediterranean style villa on the outskirts of Bastia. When I park outside, it strikes me how seldom I visited him here. Business has always been conducted at our house. As the head of the organization, that was my father's right. It was his brothers' duty to show him the respect he deserved by going to him. However, I'm not thinking about the business meetings. It's the lunches and dinners that are on my mind.

My mother often cooked for my uncles. My father invited them on a regular basis when no business was discussed. My uncles, on the other hand, never invited us for a family or social gathering, not even for a birthday. Why has it never occurred to me before?

A young woman in a housekeeper's uniform opens the door before I reach it. Avoiding my eyes, she asks, "May I help you?"

I push her aside and enter, inviting a strangled gasp. "Tell my uncle his nephew is here."

She scurries across the foyer and up the stairs, leaving me to close the door.

The last time I came here, the old housekeeper was still alive. She had a wrinkled face and thin white hair. I don't recall her name. She offered me gingerbread and milk in the kitchen as if I was six instead of sixteen. The dementia was already eating her mind away then.

Pulling off my gloves, I look around. The place is just as I remember. The interior is still opulent with golden cornices and heavy tassels on the purple velvet curtains. The wooden floor of the entrance with its ebony and ivory mosaic inlay in the center is polished to a shine. The only thing absent is the smell of potpourri. The old housekeeper left bowls full of the dried and scented rose petals throughout the house. Now the space smells like vinegar.

My uncle appears on the landing dressed in a silk robe and a matching paisley cravat. Tying the belt of the robe around his waist, he says in a jovial tone that carries through the acoustic foyer, "Angelo." The soles of his slippers slap the stairs as he makes his way down. "If I knew you were coming, I would've told Emilia to prepare a breakfast buffet."

I shove off my coat. "I've eaten."

He stretches out his arms when he reaches the bottom of the staircase and crosses the floor to greet me with an embrace. Patting my back, he holds me at arm's length. "You look well." He scrutinizes me through narrowed eyes and adds with a sly smile, "Married life seems to agree with you."

"Where can we talk?"

He drops his arms. "This isn't a social call?"

He knows damn well I won't ring his bell at sunrise for pleasure, but for now, I play his game. "Business, I'm afraid."

"You should've called me," he exclaims. "I would've come out to you."

The reason I'm here is to catch him with his pants down like my father used to say. My uncles are hiding something. I don't like the nasty suspicion growing in my gut.

"As you're here now, come through." He takes my arm and leads me to the lounge. Indicating the sofa, he says, "Sit. What can I get you to drink? Coffee? Tea?" He takes a copper bell from the coffee table and rings it. "Maybe a freshly squeezed orange juice?"

The housekeeper appears in the doorframe. She waits quietly with her eyes averted. She looks vaguely familiar. I take in the too short hem of the skirt that will leave nothing to the imagination when she bends. The flush that grows on her cheeks as she peeks at my uncle through her eyelashes makes me wonder about the nature of their relationship.

"Well?" my uncle says as he takes a seat next to me.

"Coffee, thank you."

"Something to eat? Emilia bakes the most delicious scones." He grins and nudges my shoulder. "They're decadent with a little cream." Winking at her, he adds, "So is she."

I lean back in my seat and cross my ankle over my knee. "No, thank you."

The red color of her cheeks deepens. "Anything else?"

"Maybe later," Uncle Nico says, his voice dripping with innuendo.

Well. Who would've guessed my uncle is such a dirty old man?

She spins around and hurries away with quick steps.

"She's a shy one," he says, craning his neck to follow her exit from the room. "But I'm derailing you." Studying me with a shrewd expression, he says, "You haven't told me what business brings you here."

I slip a finger into my collar and loosen my tie. "Tell me about my wife. What did she do yesterday?"

He blinks. "Don't you have the hourly reports from Toma and Gianni?"

"Yes, but it's been so long since I visited you, I thought I'd drop in and get the feedback in person."

He smiles even as his eyes tighten minutely. He's not buying it. "How kind of you. You're in luck. I read the report myself."

The housekeeper—Emilia—enters with two cups of espresso. She puts one on the coffee table in front of me. When she leaves my uncle's cup on the side table, he sticks a hand up her skirt and palms her ass.

"Thank you, Emilia," he says, looking at her like a wolf sizing up a lamb.

How much does he pay her? It must be a lot. I don't imagine she's enduring his humiliating advances for the sake of love.

She stands motionless until he withdraws his hand and pats her backside.

When she's gone, he brings his fingers to his nose and sniffs them. "There's something about the smell of a woman."

Christ. I'm going to puke.

"Anyway," he says with a sigh. "Where were we? Ah, yes. The report. Toma was on duty. Let me see." He taps a finger on his chin. "She went out for a walk after breakfast."

I raise a brow and wait.

He folds his hands over his knee and regards me with a solemn expression.

"That's it?" I ask.

"In the evening, you arrived. As for what happened then, only you can say."

"Then I went home," I say.

"Oh. You mean after you spent some time inside? Yes, yes. You went home."

He doesn't know about Sophie, or he would've mentioned her. Which makes me wonder if my cousins are doing their jobs. Or if they chose not to mention anything about the girl snooping around the house, stealing food, and climbing through the window. And if so, for what reason? Why hide it from me? What purpose will that serve?

"Why are you asking?" Making owl eyes, he leans closer. "Did something happen?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Good." He nods to himself and picks up his cup. "You should drop in more often. This is nice."

I don't think so.

I down my coffee and leave the cup on the saucer before getting to my feet. "I'll let you get to your scones and cream."

He's all teeth as he follows my example and stands. "Do let me know in advance next time you're planning a visit. I'll make sure Toma is home. We can have lunch together."

"Where is Toma?"

"He got his own place." He tilts his head. "Didn't you know?"

"No," I drawl. "He forgot to mention it."

"Yes, well." Uncle Nico pats my shoulder and says with staged regret, "It's been a while since we've seen each other." He pauses, no doubt giving the accusation time to sink in. "When your father was alive, we had dinner together every week."

"That my mother cooked. Now that you have a housekeeper with such a talent for baking, you could take the initiative of organizing a dinner upon yourself."

The smug look vanishes from his face.

"Goodbye, Uncle," I say, walking to the door. "You don't have to see me out. I know my way."

He doesn't follow me down the hallway. As I fit my coat, a movement on the landing catches my eye. Emilia stands in the shadows, hiding behind one of the grotesque marble statues. I get the feeling I know her. Then I remember. She's the hooker Uncle Enzo tried to set me up with in Marseille, the one I rejected.

Before I'm out of the door, I already have my phone in my hand. I fire off a message to my financial manager to get me Toma's address. It shouldn't be difficult. He only has to tap into the bank account and follow the money trail. Getting into my car, I send an email to one of my PI's and instruct him to gather information on Emilia.

I'm pulling into the road when Toma's address comes through on my phone. He rents a sea-facing loft apartment near the old city.

I drive to the location and park in the street. The old building is well restored. Expensive. The owner is a business connection. I punch in the code my financial manager provided to open the main door and take the staircase that spirals to the top.

There's only one door on the penthouse floor. I knock on the carved wood with a gloved hand. It takes a few minutes before my cousin opens the door in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, yawning as he scratches his jaw.

His eyes grow round. Suddenly wide awake, he exclaims, "Angelo."

"Hello, Toma," I say, forcing him back as I invite myself in.

He shuts the door. "This is, um, unexpected." Glancing toward the closed door at the end of the hallway, he says, "Do you want to grab a coffee in the bar downstairs?" His bony back is rigid even as he trots casually toward that door. "Let me grab some clothes."

"That won't be necessary." I add with a wry smile, "We're not going to the bar. With regard to the clothes, by all means, go ahead."

He turns to face me. "I don't have coffee in the apartment. I haven't had time to do the shopping."

"I already had coffee at your father's house."

His pale skin turns even whiter. "You had a meeting?"

"Impromptu business call," I say, looking around as I remove my gloves.

The furniture and decoration are contemporary. A designer white leather sofa faces a coffee table. A pewter statue of a naked woman on her hands and knees forms the base. The glass top is balanced on her back. She's in a crawling position, one knee and one palm placed in front of the other, her breasts hanging down like melons. I tilt my head to study the artwork. Interesting.

"I, um…" He scratches his head. "Can I take your coat?"

I pull off my coat and throw it over the back of a red plastic chair with crystal feet.

He swallows.

The door he eyed opens. A curvy young woman dressed in a silk negligee steps barefoot into the hallway. "Toma?"

"Go back to bed, Iris," he says.

"Who is he?" she asks, craning her neck to look at me.

"Go back to bed," he bites out, hurrying toward her and spinning her around with his hands on her waist.

"But I want coffee," she says, her tone disgruntled as he shoves her into the room. "You promised me breakfast in bed and?—"

He slams the door, cutting short her protest, and tames his curls with his fingers before facing me again. "Sorry about that." Rolling his eyes in an attempt at humor he doesn't manage to pull off, he adds, "Women."

"Hmm. It seems you've conquered your…" I drop my gaze to his crotch, "…problem."

His face turns red. "It's not like that. She's just a friend."

I raise an eyebrow. "Does your future wife know your friends sleep over?"

Exhaling through his nose, he stalks to an open-plan kitchen. "It's my home. I can do as I please."

"Until you're married," I say, following him with a narrowed gaze.

"As I said, it's nothing." He takes a mug from the cupboard and slams it on the counter. "Not that my private life is anyone's business."

"Is someone growing a backbone?" I taunt. "Or are you simply learning from your father's example?"

Pressing his palms on the counter, he says, "My father is a single man. He can do what he likes."

I suppress the urge to teach him a lesson with my fists. That's not why I'm here. I remind myself of that fact as I carefully push my irritation down. "Be careful, Toma. You have a duty to this family and an image to uphold."

He takes a tea capsule from a silver bowl shaped like a fish and pops it in an espresso machine. "I won't forget."

"Good." I measure him. "How's the job going?"

"You mean guarding your wife?" A tinge of resentment slips into his tone. "Fine, I guess."

"You guess?" My voice is soft. Dangerous. "You either know or you don't know, but you don't fucking guess."

His Adam's apple bobs as he gives me a sidelong glance. "Fine."

I watch him with the attention of a hawk. "What has she been up to?"

"Not much." Gripping the sink, he locks his arms, dips his head, and wipes his brow on his forearm. "Her movements are pretty much predictable."

"Are they?"

He doesn't meet my gaze. "Like the reports say, she goes for walks during the day, but that's it." Chancing a look at me, he asks, "Why? Did something happen?"

I cross my arms. "I was just wondering."

He presses the button on the machine. When the noise stops, he says, "You've seen our reports."

"Reports don't always state everything."

"Like what?" He turns around and leans his ass against the sink. "Are you implying I'm hiding something?"

"Are you?"

"No." He bats his eyelashes. "Of course not, Angelo. Why would you think that?"

I shrug. "Some people express themselves better with words. Writing has never been your forte."

"I just told you. Nothing is going on down there."

Like his father, he believes I don't know about Sophie. If he's been where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing, he should know. And like his father, he's choosing not to tell me. I don't know why, but I'll find out.

I close the distance and stop in front of him. "I hope so for your sake, cousin, because if I find out you lied to me about my wife, I'll slit your throat."

He blanches. We stare at each other for a beat, the silence thick in the aftermath of my threat. Everyone knows my warnings are never idle. Especially my family. Toma hasn't witnessed me executing a traitor or taking the life of an enemy yet. He hasn't seen that part of me firsthand, but I have no doubt his father is colorful in his descriptions.

When the silence has stretched long enough, I ask, "Are we clear, cousin?"

"Yes," he says, the word coming out as a squeak.

"Good." I slap him on the shoulder, making him stumble sideways. "Then you have nothing to worry about."

He grips the counter behind him as I make to turn, his shoulders slouching with obvious relief that I'm going.

"And get rid of the piece in the bedroom," I say on my way to the door. "You have a fucking wedding coming up in a few months."

Only more silence follows me.

Outside, I send an order to one of my most trusted men, instructing him to watch my cousins when they're guarding Sabella and to inform me of my wife's actions.

With that in place, I drive home and tell Heidi to buy three chickens and food for a feast. When I dial Fabien and give him my order, he's apprehensive. It's not only about how we parted at the new house. The last time I instructed him to buy clothes for the children and the old man, his effort was wasted. My grandfather sold the new clothes. God only knows what he did with the money.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Fabien says, "but you're throwing your money in the water again."

"Just do it," I bite out. "Let me worry about my money."

"Fine," he chirps. "While we're on the subject, Sabella's new clothes should arrive next week. It took a bit longer than expected because I ordered them from Milan."

I grunt my approval before ending the call.

Pouring a Scotch, I contemplate the mountain of problems I saddled myself with when I interfered in my mother's family. I understand better why my father stayed the hell away from that valley and why he never let my mother visit. He was protecting her from them by avoiding contact, but he couldn't protect her from the lasting stigma that came with her name. He could protect her from the blatant disrespect of the villagers as little as he could keep her safe from our enemy. Now, that enemy isn't only living in the new house even as she's plotting my downfall, but she's also taking care of my niece.