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I graduated at the end of that year and was awarded an intern position at the New York Times. I entered a competition in my grad year at college that I had little to no chance of winning with the thousands of applicants, but by some miracle, I did. I moved back into my childhood home, where Logan still lived. It's weird how he never changed a thing when my parents died. The throw rug Mom used to drape over her legs at night while she watched television was still folded and slung over the back of the lounge chair’s headrest. The book Dad was reading before he died even sits on his bedside table. Their bed is still dressed with my grandmother's patchwork quilt, and Frank sleeps at the foot of it where he always has. Logan kept the place clean but had not changed it. I knew it wasn't healthy, so once I returned home to live, I began packing up their things. Logan went crazy and wouldn't speak to me for over a week after I boxed up Mom and Dad's clothes and sent them to charity. The house was as though they were just out for the day and would return at any moment. Not like they were gone forever.
Being absent for most of the year made it easy for Logan to hide his real-life from me. I feel like I let him down. I should have sensed something was not right. I was supposed to look after him. I was his big sister. Even though barely two years separated us, I should have been here for him.
I will never forget the day I received the chilling call. It was two twenty-one in the morning, and my stomach dropped when I awoke to the sound. The last time I got a call at that time in the morning was to inform me my parents had died. I wasn't prepared for another call of that nature.
After Logan’s death, I immersed myself in my work. In truth, I used it as a welcome distraction from my grief. Yet the further I looked into Juna Kastrati’s death, the more it seemed to link up with my brothers. Even though I knew that thought was ridiculous, it made me even more determined to uncover the truth.
My friend Montana, whom I met in college, is an insanely brilliant hacker. She could hack her way into the police files, and while I was reading through them, I couldn’t understand why the police have not pursued or even questioned Luca Valsetti about Juna’s murder. The initial evidence was damning. Luca Valsetti was involved in Juna Kastrati's murder. Yet all that solid evidence had conveniently gone missing. The police completely turned a blind eye to it and closed the case without further investigation. Upon taking this evidence to Peter, he told me to leave it alone and forget I ever knew about it. I would not accept that. If Luca Valsetti murdered Juna, he deserves to pay for that. Juna Kastrati may have been a criminal, but he was still a human being at the end of the day, just like my brother. Juna’s cause of death was multiple gunshots to the head at close range, similar to my brother, only the bullet holes were in different places. Juna died on the same day as my brother, and they both have closed cases stating their death was gang related. The only thing that separated the two deaths was the location. Juna died in a shootout in a downtown Philadelphia laundromat, and my brother's body was discovered dumped in an alleyway four blocks away. Coincidence? Perhaps, but I was determined to get answers, so I continued to pursue the truth. Peter’s sugar-coated and fluffed-over version went to print, but unbeknownst to the NYT, I had Montana upload my version of the story to their online sites. It took them less than an hour to take it down, but by then, it was too late.
Although I am sure Peter suspected it was me that leaked the information, he never said anything to management or me. I guess they never expected that a rookie would have the means nor the balls to pull something like that off. They blamed it on a ‘gang retaliation to the Valsetti family,’ and the matter was dropped. At least for them.
A day after the story hit the press, Peter and I were sent on a new assignment to Paris to cover the fashion week. John, the caretaker of my apartment block, contacted me soon after my arrival advising me there were some men with guns looking for me. They have been sitting outside in a black SUV waiting for me to return for three days. We then found out that Peter's house had been ransacked.
It became apparent our lives were in danger. Despite the story only being live for forty-two minutes, it spread like wildfire throughout the press. For the first time, the Valsetti family could not stop what was read in the news. They obviously didn't like it and pointed the finger straight at Peter and I. How did they know? Montana assured me that the story she posted for me would not be traceable.
Peter and I were immediately placed under protection, given new locations to live and work under new names at smaller imprint offices for the company. For the last eleven months, I have been living in Atlanta, Georgia, working for the Atlanta Times. It's hot as hell there, and I hate every minute of it. My dislike has nothing to do with the place itself, more to do with the fact that I miss my apartment, friends, and life. My heavy heart will not allow me to move on from Logan's death. The injustice of it is a loud constant presence in my mind keeping it a raw and opened wound.
I resent the fact I had to move away and change everything because of one newspaper article, because of one family. The Valsetti syndicate lines the pockets of just about every politician and high-ranking police officer from New York to New Jersey. The whole town is scared of them. No negative story ever makes it to press except mine did. I don't even know where Peter is or what name he now goes by. It is like our former identities have just disappeared into thin air as though we never existed.
I hate that because of the Valsetti's, I can't walk the streets without looking over my shoulder. I hate that my new normal is to check my surroundings wherever I go. I never walk anywhere alone and have taken private lessons in self-defense three times a week for the past six months. The Valsetti's have ruined my already pathetic, miserable life.
A few weeks ago, in the lunchroom at work. I overheard Michael bragging that his cousin owned the company catering to Alessio Valsetti's wedding in Italy. This was an opportunity I could use to get inside the Valsetti family and bring them down. I knew that my editor would disapprove if I took this to him, not only due to the high risk, but because I already have a history with this family.
I applied for vacation leave and boarded a plane to Italy. Michael contacted his cousin and got me a job on his catering crew assigned to Alessio Valsetti's wedding. All it cost me for Michael's favor and his silence was two annual courtside tickets to the Atlanta Hawks’ home games. Pathetic!
So, despite my better judgment not to do this, here I am. I am here to reclaim my life back. I have dedicated too much time and lost too much trying to expose the truth.
Even if it takes me years to do it, even if it means I have to become someone else.
I will bring them down.
Two
Luca
I make one final sweep of the area. Why the fuck Alessio let Eden have the wedding here is beyond me. It's way too open, and I can't help but feel like we are all sitting ducks. I check my watch before taking another look over the surveillance screens. All my men are in position; I've checked over all the staff and guests and also tripled our security. This place is airtight. So why do I feel so anxious?
I hate weddings, but I hate them even more now that the two closest people in my life have chosen a Kastrati woman as their bride. Christ, our bloodline is ruined. But out of respect for my brother and cousin, I will play my dutiful part, no matter my distaste for it.
"Ah, Luca." I turn my head towards the doorway. One of Alessio's men is nervously calling my attention. "Alessio is asking for you, boss."
I nod. "I will be right there." Grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair, I slip my arms in and straighten the collar. As I make my way out into the long hallway, I use the mirror on the wall to secure my tie. "Fucking piece of shit," I hiss, trying to straighten the unruly satin material that won't cooperate.
"You have to loosen it. You've pulled it too tight," a soft feminine voice halts my temper. One of the catering staff approaches from my left. She confidently steps in front of me and reaches up for my neck. My natural instinct and defense training has me grabbing her wrist mid-air, holding it tightly.
"What do you think you're doing?" I bark at her. She doesn't cower as I'd expected. In fact, she looks a little pissed off.
"I was just trying to help you fix your tie, but now that you're being so rude about it, I think I'll let you fix it yourself." She attempts to pull her hand from my grasp, but she is no match for my strength. Her American accent gives away her heritage. She is not from around here.
"Let me go," she demands, trying to pull away again. I let her this time. It's entertaining to have someone stand up to me for a change. She obviously has no clue who I am. Otherwise, she would be biting her tongue and running off down the hallway to get away from me.
I hold my hands up in surrender and nod. “Go ahead.”
Her pursed lips loosen into a smirk as she leans forward, adjusting my tie. I watch her closely as she does. Her brown eyes are so dark in comparison with the lightness of her hair. She is pretty, in a wholesome, good girl kind of way. I can't help but wonder what she would look like with her hair down.
Something about her is familiar, but I can't piece it together. Her hand brushes the skin on my neck a little. The warmth of them surprises me. Petite fingers do quick work of securing the tie properly.
"There." She points to the mirror, stepping to the side. "Much better."
