Journal Entry

Quando la nave affonda, i topi scappano.

When the ship sinks, the rats flee.

LORENZO SLIPPED AWAY as soon as dinner service started. He had already studied the hotel's blueprint in advance, and it was thus no problem to know which windows to climb in and out of until he made it all the way to the ballroom's crowning glory: a fiberglass dome that just happened to offer him the best vantage point to observe the party below.

Stealthily, of course.

And what he saw made him see black.

Control yourself, dammit.

Potenziana was right in assuming he had made it his business to know everything that took place in their world. To do anything less would be idiotic for one who had enemies left and right, and that went for both Lorenzo as well as his wife's famiglia.

The only difference was how obvious people were with their hatred.

With Lorenzo, people considered it acceptable to hate him. The public had been brainwashed into thinking he was a mass murderer while old-school mafia families openly despised him for being a traitor.

The Marchettis, however...

Those who used to fear and fawn over his wife's famiglia now kept their distance or treated them with outright contempt. They were acting as if the days of Boston's ruling family were already numbered, but that was only to be expected from the weak and cowardly.

Such individuals were never to be trusted. They were all too easily swayed. Sacrificed. And if necessary, they were also just as easily disposed of .

But rarely , Lorenzo thought broodingly, did such ranks produce masterminds capable of the kind of deceit and scheming required to make someone like Giancarlo Marchetti disappear .

Lorenzo's attention switched to the security detail he had working incognito. He took note of every point of entry and checked if the guard assigned to it was accounted for.

So far, so good.

The ballroom doors opened, and Lorenzo's gaze turned hooded.

Viktor Bianciardi.

His fists clenched as he watched the man head straight to his wife.

'Care to dance with an old friend?'

'Perhaps later,' Viktor heard Gazelle say apologetically.

'It's fine, bambina,' Potenziana assured her granddaughter. 'I'll tell your husband that I insisted you dance with Viktor. Lorenzo is no immature boy you have to worry about.'

His lips tightened as his wife gave in to La Strega 's request.

To be fair to Gazelle, Lorenzo himself had told her she did not need to ask his permission for every little thing. And yet she had also been the one that it was only safe and pragmatic to do so, considering the circumstances they were still in.

So why then, dammit?

Why had she not waited to ask his permission to dance with Bianciardi?

Was it because the other man was Giancarlo's best friend and someone she thus trusted?

Or could there be another reason?

Did your granddaughter truly ask you to replace me with Viktor Bianciardi?

The memory taunted him as he listened in on the conversation between Gazelle and the other man.

' I can't believe you really married him!'

'I knew it. This is why I didn't want to dance with you. You're still mad—-'

'I'm worried, dammit. That man is dangerous. Why won't you believe me?'

'He has no reason to harm me—-'

'Yet. And I can prove it.'

Lorenzo got to his feet as soon as he saw Viktor slip something into his wife's hand.

'Leave him,' Viktor urged tautly. 'Leave him. For me.'

Lorenzo slipped back inside the ballroom, and Potenziana looked at him calculatingly as he took his seat.

"You look jealous," the older woman remarked.

Lorenzo adjusted his wireless earpiece as he continued listening to the conversation between Bianciardi and his wife.

'You're not safe with him, Gaz.'

Lorenzo turned to his wife's grandmother. "Why did you choose me over him?"

'I've already lost my best friend. I can't lose you, too.'

"Why do you say that?" Potenziana asked archly.

'You'll understand everything, once you realize what I've given you.'

"Don't you remember? It was not me but you who chose yourself over him."

'I'm serious, Gaz. Choose me this time.'

"So perhaps you should think about answering your own question," the Marchetti matriarch suggested. "And if you will, think of how you're different with my granddaughter and her alone."

'Remember where Giancarlo and I used to have late-night dinners with you?'

"The answer should be clear enough."

' I'll wait for you there until midnight.'