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Dante's name flashes, and I sigh inwardly, looking at the time on the screen. What could possibly be so urgent for my consigliere at half past midnight? I swipe to answer, my voice laced with a touch of impatience as I bring the phone to my ear.
“Don Tommaso” he greets me. “I don’t think you’ll like this, signore.” His voice is low, not his usual assertive tone.
“What is it?” the hesitation in my voice is obvious.
“We have information about someone trying to expose you.” I stare blankly into the space. Expose?
“What do you mean?” I get up.
“Has someone been following you recently? To meetings? Home?” he asks sternly.
“No. Tell me, what is it?” Was I right? Mauro has men after us?
“They know about you. And we have been informed they have proof of your dealings.”
“Proof of what?” I scoff. “Listen, we need men after Mauro–”
“I’m afraid this is not Mauro’s doing. We have been informed it’s someone else. I double checked with my men to make sure it isn’t a trap Mauro has set.” What?
“We do have a source. I am waiting on an email confirming their identity. You will receive it in a moment.” A flicker of annoyance curses through me.
“It’s not a run-of-mill intrusion. This one is targeted. Personal.” I clench my jaw, contemplating the implications. Low Angeles has alliances and vendettas, but no one has ever dared to navigate this web to reach me.
“I’ll wait for the information. I want every resource devoted to tracing this back.”
Dante acknowledges my directive with a curt, “Understood.”
My anger hasn’t subsided, I’ve just developed a new anger. It is just as intense, but this time it’s directed towards myself. I have been letting things slide by.
I stand in the balcony, looking at the cityscape. I need to eliminate this threat. I can’t let this pass. I clench the cold railing. I will go after them. I’ll kill whoever it is.
I let out a sigh and go back to my study, eager to receive the email. I log into my MacBook in the privacy of my study. One unread email.
The subject line grabs my attention. "LA’s Dark side: The wealthy owner of The Odeon, exposed.”
As I click to open the email, a video link beckons. My pulse quickens with a mix of anticipation and anger. The cursor hovers over the play button, and I take a deep breath before clicking it. The video shows the familiar backdrop of the Spago, Jacob Smith’s office. FUCK!
I hear the gasps of the person recording, every time my men land a blow on Jacob. The same gasp I heard from the partly open door. A sense of foreboding tightens in my chest as I witness the violence that follows. I focus on myself standing with my back towards the door.
Did they see my face? I hear the plea of the restaurant owner and immediately remember turning to face the door.
“Damn it!” I holler as the video ends with my face on the screen. I shift my focus to the article attached, detailing Jacob’s plight, and the brutality of the Mafia Don.
Inhuman. Vile. Cold-blooded. Wicked. My eyes hover over the words used to describe me. There’s more. A CV attached with the contents. There they are.
I grip the cold barrel of the gun in anger. My eyes narrow at the screen as I wait for the document to load. I look at the picture, half-loaded, blue eyes looking back at me. A woman. I squint in confusion.
The document loads and the name with the picture stares back at me in bold letters: Ella Hart. A chill seeps into my body. The same blue eyes. The same brown hair. The same expression, this time, daunting. It’s as if she’s looking right at me. I freeze, my mind going over everything I just saw.
Why? Why would she do this? I look back in her blue eyes and then at the red hair tie on my wrist.
Her hair tie.
Chapter Eight
ELLA
Ifeel sick. The pen feels foreign as I scribble with it. I wipe my sweaty hands against my jeans and continue writing.
