When we get back to the house, I walk with Maximo to his office, where Enzo is waiting. “Christ, boss. You’re limping like an old man with a fake hip.”
“I’m fine,” he mutters as he takes a seat behind his desk.
“Oh, Enzo, can you have someone pick up the antibiotic the doctor prescribed?” I ask him. “The doctor said the wound looks good, but he prescribed that and some pain killers just in case.”
Enzo looks at Maximo, who gives him a curt nod. He pulls the doors to the study closed behind him as he leaves. Once I’m sure we were alone, I say, “You’ve been distant this morning. The other night was terrifying, but we’re alive. You don’t get to stop talking to me or sideline me now.”
Maximo’s jaw works before he answers. “I am afraid,” he admits. “Because you’re not expendable, Constance. You’re one of the few people in my life who isn’t. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you live long enough to see the end of this war.”
His words should make me feel safe. Protected. Instead, they set my teeth on edge.
A sharp ache flares in my chest. It’s not fear.It’s not even anger. It’s hurt. He’d rather cage me than risk losing me, and somehow that feels worse than dodging bullets.
“You think keeping me in the dark, making me stay home while your men are out fighting, is going to keep me alive?” I ask him.
“Yes. It’s worked historically for women in the family.”
I shake my head. “Then you really don’t know me at all. I’m not the type of woman to stand back and let others do the hard work for me!” I move toward the door, ready to leave. If I stay in this house another minute, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Maximo demands as he grimaces and gets to his feet.
“I’m going out. Back to the restaurant, if you must know. I’m going to check the mail and see if there’s any correspondence from the insurance company in our PO Box. They haven’t called to update me about their investigation the last few days.”
“Let me send someone with you,” he offers.
“No, that’ll just look more suspicious if anyone happens to be watching the place. I’ll be back, Maximo. Go worry about something you can control,” I toss over my shoulder as I leave the study.
I know he’s not happy with me. Hell, he may not speak to me again for the rest of the afternoon for leaving. But as I walk out the front door and look up at the gray sky, I can’t shake the thought that comes next.
If Maximo tries to sideline me on Saturday night, I’ll find my own way into that damn club.
16
Maximo
Constance comes home quieterthan the grave she’s trying to avenge, and silence follows her through the halls.
Eventually, she curls up in her room with a book she probably isn’t even reading.
At six forty-five, I send Leonard to tell her we’re having dinner at seven tonight.If she wants to keep freezing me out for wanting to protect her, she can do it at the table to my face.
By the time she comes down, Enzo is already there, nursing a glass of Chianti at the far end of the table. It pairs well with the prime rib my chef’s prepared for the evening. I brought down my laptop to stream the local news while Francis brings out the rest of our dinner.
Constance hesitates at the doorway.
“Have a seat,” I tell her, gesturing to the chair on my right so she can see the laptop as well.
She does, and her eyes stay fixed on thescreen. The anchor’s polished smile fades as the segment changes, and a live shot of the city’s courthouse fills the frame.
Arthur Darby, former mayor, family associate, and the man whose campaign I had bankrolled, stands at a podium beside Byron Mathews, the current mayor, bought and paid for by the Bratva. Darby looks older than the last time I saw him. His hair is thinner, his suit baggier, hanging unhealthily from him as though he had suddenly lost weight.
“…this senseless violence has to stop,” Darby says. “We’re calling for a full investigation into the criminal activity plaguing our city, and we will not tolerate armed gangs fighting in our streets.”
Mathews steps forward, nodding gravely as he takes over the podium. “We’ll be working closely with law enforcement to bring those responsible to justice.”
The camera cuts to footage from the pier, panning across the flashing lights, police tape, and dark-clad figures to the burned-up warehouse. There’s a long shot of a black-bagged body being rolled out on a gurney and loaded into an ambulance. There are no wanted faces on the screen and no accusations against me personally, but the message is clear enough to those who are meant to hear it. They want people to believe the Luciani family is fucking slipping.
A pulse of rage flares hot behind my ribs. They’re painting me as weak. That’s the first step before they go for the kill.
