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In the time it takes for me to walk upstairs, down the hallway, and into the room where we’re holding all the unknowns, Gil has already separated them into two groups. The smaller of them consists of two men and three women in their early to mid-twenties. I recognize one of them as Rosalind, who Cesare picked up at the Phoenix.
I turn to the men holding the larger group at gunpoint. “Let them go.”
“What should we do with this lot?” Gil asks.
Good question. It would be a shame to waste all those lives or let them escape via cyanide pills. I wait for the others to leave before turning to meet the assassin’s tense faces.
“I’m going to use you as leverage to cancel the hit on my brothers and me. When your firm agrees to my request, I’ll send you back unharmed.”
One of them jerks in his restraints as though what I’ve said is impossible, but I raise a palm. “Whatever your client is paying, I’m prepared to double it. Can you share his name?”
The assassins exchange glances.
“Is it Tommy Galliano?”
Rosalind’s eyes rotate to meet mine, and she gives me the barest of nods. I don’t acknowledge her answer, though I wonder what Cesare did to her in that playroom. It almost looks like she’s on our side. That, or she has an impeccable sense of self-preservation.
I turn to Gil. “Keep an eye on them. If one of them so much as grimaces, I want you to knock them out.”
Gil advances on the group of assassins, and I walk out of the room and down the hallway, passing Benito. He’s on the phone, trying to smooth out last night’s disaster.
Benito is our diplomat. The ivy league-educated one with impeccable manners who can fit into any society event. If I had an official consigliere, it would be Benito. Right now, he deals with the outside world in a way that I can’t as a recently released convict.
I continue up the stairs and into my bedroom to find it empty. My breath catches, and my mind conjures up scenarios of men abducting or harming Emberly. Blood roars in my ears, and I clench my jaw, ready to tear the grounds apart until I remember the surveillance app. Fingers trembling, I pull out my phone and to find her working on my portrait.
Thank fuck.
Some of the tension eases at the sight of her so preoccupied with her art. Painted eyes, the exact replica of mine, stare out from the canvas, sharpening with every stroke of her brush, and I’m struck by her talent. Her movements are so beautiful and fluid. The way she brings the paint to life is breathtaking.
She disappears out of range, breaking the spell. I’m about to switch to another camera when a text appears from Ernest Lubelli, saying that Emberly recently made contact, and he’s ready to purchase her paintings on my behalf.
Good. Everything’s in place. I make a mental note to forward him the bogus contracts.
I send a text to Leroi, requesting the best way to contact the Moirai. He responds within ten seconds with a number and an offer of assistance, but I let it slide. Leroi has done enough. The poor bastard is still recovering from a stab wound he got the day he helped us capture Samson Capello.
When I call the number, a male voice answers in two rings.
“Moirai?”
“This is Roman Montesano. Last night’s attempt on my life failed, and I have five of your operatives. One of them died in a gunfight and the others are unharmed. Let’s negotiate.”
THIRTY-THREE
EMBERLY
Thank goodness my studio’s kitchen has a full-sized sink because it’s covered in art materials that need cleaning.
I’ve never worked so hard or intensely on a portrait and by the time I’ve finished, the ache in my fingers spreads up to my arms, past my shoulders, and embeds itself in my neck. Even the muscles in my upper back are cramping.
None of that matters when every vessel is flooded with euphoria. I barely needed to look at the reference photo I took of Roman because his murderous protective glare is burned in my mind.
Last night was both my most disturbing experience and my most reassuring. When Roman got shot, I went into survival mode and let myself get swept up in the panic. Once the fight-or-flight faded, all I wanted was to be at his side. I couldn’t imagine a future without him somewhere in my life.
Jim’s obsession with me is relentless. There’s nothing worse than knowing the man who wants you dead has a small army of men willing to do his bidding.
My only question is why? Toward the end, Jim had nothing for me but contempt. I was too fat, too skinny, too sassy, too fake in my obedience. I couldn’t cook, clean, cater to his needs, or take a beating without creating a mess.
Jim wanted me tiptoeing on eggshells, trying to predict his moods. Even when spaced out on the opiates he would inject, he was never satisfied. I couldn’t do anything right.
