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“Jesus Christ, Alistair,” he grunts, glaring. “You scared the fuck out?—”
“What would it be worth to The Commission to know that Massimo Carveli is the wrongful head of the Carveli family as a result of forging his father’s will?”
Carmine’s mouth draws to a line.
“Alistair—”
“I’m fucking serious, Carmy,” I snarl.
His eyes narrow. “Do you have proof?”
“Plenty.”
The corners of his lips curl dangerously.
“I’d say it’d be worth quite a fucking lot to The Commission to know that,” he growls. “Quite a fucking lot.”
After that, I go directly to the hotel.
To Eloise.
Because I have to look her in the eye and know if I’m going crazy, or if I’ve just fallen for her bullshit all over again.
33
ELOISE
The news articles and tidbits of gossip I find online don’t help much. There are a few stories here and there about Luca’s death—that he was in Paris when he had a heart attack—but even that isn’t clear.
Some sources whisper he was with a prostitute when it happened. Others claim it was while sitting on a toilet. One even has him at church, of all places.
Basically, it boils down to whichever source each gossip blog interviewed, and how they wanted to paint Luca.
The thing that jumps out at me is that there seems to be some confusion about when he actually died. According to the earliest reports, Massimo officially announced his father’s passing three days after Luca’s death. This all coincided with his ascension to the Carveli throne.
But there’s another story with one of Luca’s drivers reporting him as missing in Paris almost a full week before Massimo’s announced date of death. It’s suspicious as hell, but given that Luca Carveli was a notorious crime boss, nobody’s exactly looking into it too hard.
Either way, there’s nothing on this mysterious first-born son of Luca’s—Massimo’s alleged older brother—who appears to have died young. The boy my father went out of his way to tell Luca he’d grieved for.
I exhale as I sit back in the bed, glancing at my phone nervously.
Obviously, Alistair having dinner with Massimo has me on high alert, even if he’s assured me that it’s all fine. But I haven’t heard from him at all, and it’s getting late.
I want him here, with me. I need him here, with me. And not just for the sex—for the animalistic way he pounces on me, or the way he fucks me with this intoxicating blend of primal aggression and slow, sensual ecstasy.
I need him because I just need him. All of him. His warmth, and his arms. His comfort, and his strength.
I need the way he just seems to fit and makes me feel safe.
The way he feels like home.
I glance at my father’s letter sitting on the bed next to me. I don’t know why I’m so fixated on it, but I can’t stop thinking about my discovery that Massimo had a brother.
Frowning, I go to my laptop again and bring up Google. There’s obviously lots of information about Massimo—mostly about his playboy lifestyle, and his violent public tendencies. There’s even a nauseating puff piece in some gross celebrity gossip blog that focuses on the mafia world concerning our wedding, with some blurry paparazzi shots of Massimo grinning at the altar while I look like I’m heading to the guillotine.
But there’s also plenty about Luca’s decadent lifestyle and playboy antics. By all accounts the man was a vile, cruel, abusive asshole, yet seems to have had mistresses and scandalous affairs all over the place.
A washed up movie starlet, a US Senator’s wife, the daughter of a Council Minister of Italy… It’s like bad reality television, reading about this crap. It’s all total trash, but somehow I can’t drag my eyes away from the litany of Massimo’s father’s scandals.
