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My brows rise. Once again, Benito has a point.
“The cops want to search the house for her. If you walk out there with blood smeared over your chest, you’ll give them probable cause.”
I shrug on the robe and fasten it around the waist, while Sofia wipes my exposed skin with a cloth.
“See what you can do about those cuts,” I mutter and pat Sofia on the shoulder. “We’re going to need a week’s worth of clothes for our guest.”
Benito whirls around. “You’re keeping her alive that long?”
“Maybe. Nothing about this woman is predictable.”
After checking my pajama bottoms and feet for any telltale signs of blood, I leave Benito and Sofia tending to Emberly.
Walking through the mansion’s hallways is like a trip through the past. Very little about the decor has changed since before my arrest, yet the person I am is drastically different.
What I once thought was a grandiose museum is steeped in our family history. Each Montesano patriarch has made his mark. For example, Dad was the one who reduced the fortune his forefathers built up over generations and I’ll be the one who gets it back.
Staff members greet me as I pass, including the guards at the door. They’ve worked for the family for decades, but the comfort and ease from the old days is gone.
Capello was once Dad’s most trusted friend. We used to call him Uncle Freddy. Benito was even best friends with his twin sons. If Emberly had known her father, she might have been a companion for Cesare, since they’re both twenty-four.
That Capello motherfucker sat at our table, ate our food, and drank our wine. He was one of the family, yet he and several others drove knives through all our backs.
How many of the people are also waiting for their moment to strike?
I take my time walking down the outdoor steps, inhaling the familiar scents of juniper and freshly cut grass. Danillo, the head gardener, straightens from pruning one of the many shrubs that border the front entrance and welcomes me back home.
With a nod, I move past him and toward the black sedan parked in the courtyard. Gil leans across the driver’s seat and opens the passenger side door.
I slide into the seat beside him. “Where’s Cesare?”
“With some woman he brought back from the Phoenix,” he replies, his voice flat.
“Who?”
“Rosalind. Your cousin Leroi’s crazy ex. He took her to his playroom.”
My shoulders stiffen. Playroom? I have enough to handle with the cops on my back.
It would take a good ten minutes to reach the front gates on foot, or half as long if I cut through the trees, so Gil drives me through the grounds, passing the gardens. The morning sun glints off the surface of the pond, giving me a stark contrast from prison. As we round a bend, I catch the first glimpses of the cops beyond a barricade of our vehicles at the front gates.
“There’s too many men out front,” I say. “Move some of them around the estate’s perimeter. I don’t want any of those bastards sneaking in through the fences.”
Gil grunts. “Are you coming today?”
“Where?”
“To the address you waterboarded out of Ricky Ferraro.”
My lip curls at the memory of our former informant who sold out the location of our meth lab. “Let Benito get started without me.”
Gil nods, then pauses to give me a wary glance.
“What?” I ask.
“What’s so special about that broad?” Gil asks.
“Apparently, she’s a petty art thief,” I mutter.
