“I grew up all over,” she says dismissively.
I train my gun lower, where her leg is. The unspoken threat is clear. Talk, or pay.
“All over where?” I prod.
With a sigh, she says, “I was born in Napa. I homeschooled starting at age five, then got sent to live with relatives in Paris when I was six. I attended the Marymount School there. At age eight, I transferred to Renaissance International School in Italy and boarded there until I was twelve, then went to Switzerland to yet another boarding school for four more years.”
She recites all this in a bored monotone, as if she’s recounted her CV so many times she could do it in her sleep.
“A real global citizen,” I say dryly. “Why did your parents send you to so many places?”
Dead-eyed, she says, “They didn’t. They were killed when I was four. My uncle took me in, but I couldn’t stay. He had an empire to run, and his home wasn’t safe for a small child.”
“Your uncle Sergio.”
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting. Because Sergio Bruno only has one sibling. And she’s still alive.”
In fact, she’s the mother of Marco’s wife, Karina.
“Sergio isn’t a blood relative,” Juliana clarifies, her tone irritated. “He was just close to my parents. He’s like my godfather.”
Something is niggling at me—the notion that Sergio’s house wasn’t safe for a child. Why was young Juliana supposedly in danger there, yet Karina grew up in that exact same house without anybody raising an issue? It doesn’t make sense. My bullshit detector is starting to beep.
“Okay. So your quasi-godfather, with your best interests at heart, sent you packing. Got it. Continue.”
With a roll of her eyes, Juliana says, “My last stint abroad was in the UK. That’s where I did my uni prep at Roedean and completed my A-levels, followed by my enrollment at the University of San Francisco to complete my major in business administration. I’ve been in the Napa area since then. Does that about cover it?”
I frown. Something else isn’t adding up.
“Why UCSF? It’s not exactly the most prestigious university in the country, and they’re known for medicine, not business. After all that elite education, you could have gone anywhere.”
“It was close to home,” Juliana says, venom in her voice.
“So even with all that moving around, you still considered Napa home,” I say.
“I guess?” she says with a shrug. “Although honestly, nowhere is home. I’ve never belonged anywhere. Maybe I just got tired of all the relocating.”
Under the bravado, I catch a tinge of sadness. Most people wouldn’t even notice, but I’ve spent decades fine-tuning my senses to pick up on the moods and vulnerabilities of others.
So Juliana Guerra, after being rejected by her “uncle” and sent halfway across the world at the age of six, has led a life of loneliness and isolation? Interesting. I wonder why she was sent away. And who was bankrolling all those years of private schools and boarding costs.
“You remember the name of the street you lived on when you were a child?” I ask.
“Old Sonoma Road, south of Westwood Hills Park,” she says icily. “But the house there is long gone. Because your fucking father burned it.To the ground. With my parents inside.”
Again, that same monotone, automatic response. Almost as if she’s been coached.
“My condolences,” I say coolly. “Are there records of this fire? Maybe an article in the Napa Valley Register?”
“No. Because your father bribed the police and the media with hush money.”
“Plausible, I suppose. What makes you so sure it was Enzo Bellanti who did it?” I ask.
“Or one of his soldiers. Whatever. Either way, he was responsible!”
“Your uncle tell you that? Huh? Is that the only shred of evidence you have?”
