“What about that bitch, Vanetti? He mentioned a J.W.,” I say, picturing the bastard I tortured. That name was the one bit of information I managed to get from him. “Does that mean anything?”
Fabio shrugs. “Whoever this puppet master is, he went through a lot of lengths to cover his tracks. Meaning that he has not only the resources, but the intelligence with which to do so. I found another alarming clue, though. Something unexpected.”
“What?” It takes more than the usual gambit to surprise Fab.
“I got curious and had my informant run a search across the international database for anything that caught his eye. It might be unrelated, but—” He starts to pace, still stroking his chin.
“If you’re mentioning it, I’m guessing it might not be so unrelated after all.”
“Perhaps. A rash of sudden deaths at a firm overseas has rattled the corporate world. A plane crash, it seems, killed the entire board, leaving a slew of new investors in charge. The company isn’t major, mind you. It only controls a small fleet of cargo shippers—far too small to matter in the international trade, but—”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Exactly,” Fabio agrees. “If that hunch pans out, then something big is afoot, which is why I want you to stay focused. And to stay clean—” he pats the pocket where the pills reside. “Let Vin heal and find whoever did this so we can end the threat permanently.”
“You sound like me,” I say. “Usually, you’d be prattling on about peace and love and healing.”
“I preached peace and love once,” he says softly. “And it didn’t turn out so well in the end, did it?”
He’s referring to an event well beyond the shitstorm with Mischa Stepanov. Back when I, to put it nicely, went off the fucking deep end, leaving him to pick up the pieces. Did I ever thank him for that? Acknowledge it out loud? Knowing Fab, he wouldn’t even want to hear it if I did.
“Who knows where the hell I’d be without your peace and love,” I tell him.
He scoffs, lightening the mood again. “Don’t get sappy on me, Don.”
“Sappy or withdrawal, who can tell the difference?”
“Let’s try to avoid both then, shall we?” Fabio continues to pace, nearing the window by the time he finally looks my way again. “I need to ask you something.”
I stiffen. He’s serious. “About what?”
The way he’s staring has me on edge. I can’t even begin to name the expression on his face.
“Have I grown three fucking heads or something?”
“Why would you give her that stuff?” he demands hoarsely. “What did you even tell her? I know it wasn’t the truth, or she would have burned it all—”
“Tell her what?” Her, being the girl. At least one hunch is proven correct—something happened between them. “What are you talking about?”
“Damn it, Don…” He sinks onto a nearby chair, but the lack of usual poise ages him decades.
“Whatever I’ve done, spit it out—”
“Olivia.” His knuckles white as he grips the hand rests. “Those clothes. I didn’t realize you gave her those clothes. Why would you give her those—”
“I didn’t give her shit.” It’s the only thing I can think to say, but it’s the truth. Luciano was the one who dredged up that box from only God knows where. “I’m sorry if you—”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Fabio counters, his gaze on the floor. “I just don’t understand why you would… Never mind—” He stands, composed again. “Anyway, I’ll escort the girl to the hospital.”
“Alone? Hell no. Take Luciano and—”
“Yes, alone. I think it will be a better show of faith than marching in there armed to the teeth. I also took the liberty of bringing her some more suitable clothing. While I’m there, I’ll check on Vincenzo and update you on his progress. In the meantime, you will?” He phrases it like a fucking pop quiz question.
I offer him another mocking salute. “I’ll stay out of trouble.”
“Stay focused, Donatello.” His sharp tone heralds yet another damn scolding. “I know you’ve been reformed, but I wouldn’t mind a new, improved, sober Donatello Vanici, the famiglia leader for a few days. At least until this mess is sorted.”
I have to chuckle. “Shit must be worse than you’re saying if you want Il Mostro back.”
“Not the monster you became,” he corrects. “The real you. Confident, cocky Donatello, full of life who loved his line of work. Remember him?”
He makes it sound like something out of a goddamn fairy tale. Maybe it was. A perfect man with a perfect life who just so happened to run an organized crime syndicate on the side. What a goddamn aspiration.
“Yeah, I remember…” I’m on my feet, approaching the window on autopilot. I used to spend hours in this spot, eyeing the overgrown yard beyond it. Once, two children played tag beneath that old oak tree. They were cocky and confident, too, trusting that their uncle Don would always protect them…
And he failed them both.
“Fuck!” I pivot, smashing my fist against the nearest section of the wall. Again. Again. Specks of white paint chip off, joining the dust coating the floor.
“Don!” Fabio rushes toward me, but I wave him off.
“It’s fine.” A look at my hand contradicts that statement. My knuckles are bloodied, scraped by the plaster, but I don’t feel any pain.
For seven years, I’ve felt nothing.
Liar. Last night, lying in bed with a writhing blond beneath me, I felt something alright. A wrenching pang in my gut as I watched her suck in air, her throat quivering. Pure, fucking misery—but I wasn’t suffering; I relished in it.
Goddamn it. I slam my bloodied hand against my temple as if that could drive her from my skull. It doesn’t work. She’s still there, taunting me with those eyes, her lips trapped between her teeth, an elusive emotion lurking behind that gaze. Anger? Hate? Disgust?
In that moment, I would have given her anything just to reveal what the hell it was…
“Are you okay?” Fabio’s shouting, his hand on my shoulder.
“No,”
