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“Don Tommaso is home. He has sent me to inform you that he’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“What am I supposed to do until then?!” I holler.
“I’m afraid something important has come up. You rest up. He says you should make yourself at home.” Is this some twisted power play, or does he genuinely believe confining me here serves a purpose? My mind races with thoughts of what he might do to me next. Will he hurt me? Or worse? I can't bear to think about it. The idea sends shivers down my spine.
I approach the locked door again, running my fingers along its polished surface. The coldness beneath my touch serves as a tangible reminder of my current isolation. The silence in the room amplifies it. I hate him.
Chapter Thirteen
TOMMASO
Istare at the LED screen of my office, my chest pounding.
‘Bombings at The Santee Alley, nine people dead.’ My hands stiffen, balling into fists at my side. I feel the anger coiling, tightening its grip on my insides. My jaw clenches instinctively, a physical response to the storm brewing within. My biceps strain at the seams of my dinner jacket, and I feel the vein that bulges in my neck.
“Son of a bitch!” Francesco bellows at the screen beside me.
‘The police is still unsure of the link between the two explosions in one of the busiest shopping districts of Los Angeles but there is no suspicion of a terrorist act. The bombings are thought to have been carried out by organized crime, hinting at a mob conflict–’ The voice of the newscaster fades away as Francesco turns the volume down.
“There is no way any other clan would operate like this. This is Mauro’s doing,” he grinds the words out through clenched teeth. I stroke my jaw with a quivering hand, unable to control that physical manifestation of the anger building up inside me.
“Did the Commissioner give a statement to the press?”
“No. But he won’t turn a blind eye on this one. This puts all of the clans on their radar. Every single fucking one of us,” Francesco bristles at his own words.
“That motherfucker!” I stamp my fist on the table, flinging the crystal vase on the floor and shattering it into a million small pieces.
“A woman and a child were among the victims. An innocent child. This is a deal breaker with the FBI and the police.” Francesco’s tone is austere as he speaks. He’s right. This is beyond a breach in the code. This is fucking sick. And there is only one person capable of doing this. Mauro.
“Do we have word from the other clans?” I ask.
“All fingers point towards Mauro. Everyone is on high alert. They have increased their security on the turfs.”
“They have agreed that a rogue element must be removed. We have the green light for his elimination–" Dante looks at his buzzing phone.
"Before we proceed with Mauro, we need to handle the authorities delicately. We can't afford any unwanted attention," I assert, my gaze piercing through the dim light of the office. Dante nods in agreement.
"I'll coordinate and ensure that our dealings remain under the radar,” he assures.
I gesture toward the city map spread across my desk, indicating the areas where our influence extends. "Have our men increase their presence, especially here, here and here. Patrolling the restaurant won’t be enough. We need to be a step ahead," I instruct. Francesco leans forward, absorbing my words.
"You don’t need to worry about the authorities, signore. The Galliano family has managed to stall the police investigations, and the Marziale family has greased the right palms to keep the FBI at bay. For now, Mauro is our only concern," Dante says as he gets off the phone.
Francesco lets out a sigh of relief. “That buys us time.”
Dante nods. "They showed up to support us, signore.” What Mauro has done goes beyond our usual dealings. We've always respected the boundaries, and now someone has overstepped them.
“Position the men as told. And inform me if something turns up.” As I step out of the office, I notice my men standing outside Ella’s room.
“How is our guest faring?” I ask my housekeeper.
“Well, signore. I told her you’d be seeing her in the morning, like you asked.”
“Perfect.” I keep staring at the pictures of the blast on the screen. My hands clench into tight fists again, nails digging into the palms of my hands. The anger swirls within me, overpowering any sense of reason or logic.
How could he stoop so low? How could he be so oblivious to how this can disrupt the deal with the Feds? A never-ending game of one-upmanship, is all he wants.
Chapter Fourteen
