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I look around the room. The study itself is beautiful, richly done like the rest of the house, with antique furnishings, a wall of books, and dark curtains to filter the sun. The scent of whiskey and Cristiano’s aftershave, same as in his closet, linger in the air, making me draw out each inhale.
This little fact irritates me and when my mind wanders to last night, to our kiss, I fist my hands and squeeze my eyes shut to force the memory away.
“We’ll go into Naples today to buy you some clothes.”
I open my eyes, look down at myself, at the same dress I wore yesterday. I still don’t know whose it is.
“How long will I be here?”
“You’ll be here for the foreseeable future. Sit.” I take one of the chairs in front of his desk.
I watch him put a ledger away and notice the stack of photos he’s got turned upside down on one corner.
“How long will you keep Noah down in that cell?”
“I’m undecided.” He pours coffee for both of us. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.”
He pushes one of the plates of food toward me, but I don’t touch it. I sip my coffee instead.
“Whose room did I sleep in?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Your sister?”’
“She was only five at the time of the killings. Her best friend was sleeping over. Mara. Lenore’s granddaughter. She disappeared. Just vanished into thin air. No body and we haven’t been able to find any trace of her. Did your brothers ever mention a little girl?”
I shake my head, but I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking the same thing. Flesh trade. She’d be fifteen now. And the real creeps like them even younger than that.
“She’s probably dead,” he says but I know he doesn’t believe it.
I nod half-heartedly and when I look up, his eyes are intent on mine.
“Do I need to put bars on the windows, Scarlett?”
“What?”
“Lenore said you had the window wide open.”
“Your concern is touching.”
“Do I?”
“I’m not going to kill myself.”
“If you do, I’ll throw your brother out the same window. Are we clear?”
“You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”
“Who’d be in charge of the cartel now that your brothers are dead?”
Swift change of topic. “I don’t know,” I start. I haven’t had anything to do with the actual running of things ever and I’ve never wanted to. “Half of them left when Diego and Angel killed our parents. The other half have probably gone to the highest bidder now that Angel and Diego are dead. They’re nothing but mercenaries.”
“Well, the family seems to be reuniting.”
“What?”
He turns over the stack of photos and holds them out to me.
I put my coffee down and take them, flip through them. For a moment, it’s like déjà vu. Our old house, a huge but cozy estate on acres of land protected by forest. I haven’t seen it in ten years. I’ve been in Italy ever since the coup.
I touch the whitewashed wall, see the welcome mat with the once-bright red poppies on it. They were my mom’s favorite flower. Her favorite color red. She told me once that dad wouldn’t let her name me Poppy. He thought it was too western a name—my mom was half-American and lived most of her life in the states. She met my dad on a trip home. But he did allow Scarlett which is how I ended up with my name.
The mat is trampled now. It should be replaced. The porch, too, looks run down, the once bright yellow paint peeling off the wooden railing, weeds growing through the floorboards.
But that’s not why Cristiano gave me these.
As I flip through, I see their faces. I don’t recognize the younger ones but the older ones I know. Uncles and others who worked for my father. The ones who left when Diego and Angel took over.
“How did you get these?”
“Drone. You recognize them?”
“Some.”
“Keep going.”
I do, my heartbeat picking up because I’m sure things are about to get worse. And they do. Fast.
It’s when I see the small cabin high in the mountains that my heart sinks. It’s where my father held his most important meetings. Complete privacy. I don’t want to know what else he did up there, but I do know if you were in real trouble with him, that’s where you went. Some never came back. The ones who did were in bad shape.
But now I see it’s one of my cousins, well, the husband of a cousin. One who I hadn’t seen since the murders of my parents. I called him Féfé, a nickname because I couldn’t say his name, Felix, when I was little. Noah couldn’t either and I remember teaching him Féfé even though Felix hated it. He married my uncle Jacob’s daughter.
And beside him stands Marcus Rinaldi. It’s the only reason I notice Felix at all. He’s an utterly unremarkable man.
