Victor Hale’s mouth twists. “The Contis do love taking what belongs to other men and calling it legacy.”
“What other men are you referring to?” she says. “I only see cowards who threaten pregnant women and children. Who give false names and hide behind shell companies.”
The men are silent for a moment, absorbing the information.
“You’re right, Rocco,” she says, directing the comment at the one who called himself Matthew Carr. “There is no one else coming to this meeting. I made sure my event planner, Alana Gibson, heard all about it, though. She is your snitch, isn’t she?”
Then she points the pen at the man in the wheelchair, the one who called himself Victor Hale. “Or rather, your snitch, I should say. Granddaughter of Damiano Vitale.”
He narrows his eyes, but Caterina continues before he can get a word in.
“It was the flowers, wasn’t it?” she says. “My admin admitted he passed the task off to her, and I never get yellow roses—not really my style—except… when my sister comes to dinner. That granddaughter of yours must’ve put that together somehow. Maybe looked at order forms and lined the dates up?”
At his silence, she smiles. “That's it, isn’t it? That’s what she did. My bodyguard warned me about those damn flowers, but I just had to have them. I really hate admitting when he’s right, so I’ll be happy to get you back for that one. She’s been arrested for conspiracy to commit murder, by the way.”
“You cunt,” he says viciously.
Caterina tsks. “My, my. What language. My father always says that men lose their manners when they realize they’ve already lost the room.”
Rocco’s chair scrapes back an inch, and I tense.
I know that the room is contained, that security is standing right outside the doors to the conference room. I know that my own people are positioned outside, ready to burst in there at a moment’s notice. I know that her own brothers and uncles are standing outside the door as well, not leaving it up to chance.
But that does not stop me from hating that it’s not me there.
But before Rocco can stand, the last man lifts one hand without looking at him. “Sit.”
Rocco stills, but rage covers his face, and I know he would hurt her if he could.
A beat of silence follows.
Then Carlo Valenti sits back slowly, cold eyes fixed on her.
“Well,” he says softly. “Luca’s little girl has been doing her homework.”
Chapter Forty
Caterina
Luca’s little girl.
There it is.
I knew someone would say it or something similar eventually. I expected it from Rocco, maybe from Damiano, because their anger is younger, sharper, less disciplined.
But Carlo Valenti says it as if it should matter. As if he’s cut me.
Maybe once, it would have.
I let the silence stretch.
Then I smile.
“Actually,” I say, “Luca’s little girl has been doing some forensic accounting.”
Rocco’s mouth tightens.
Damiano looks like he wants to spit at me.
