Page 54 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

Some wacko out there is trying desperately to snuff out my life, my family has been destroyed, and the only other person who would’ve protected me with his life is still in critical condition.

The option of my sister is a no-go; so, as irresponsible as it sounds, Adriano’s the only one I can rely on to keep me safe right now.

I don’t say a single word to him as he pulls the front seat door open for me. Kristina had assured me that I could keep Puddles with her in the house, which was a huge relief, as I didn’t plan on bringing him along.

He slides into the driver’s seat, starting up the ignition. “Where to?”

“Central City Avenue.”

As the car rolls out of the garage, a flood of questions swirls in my head. How does he feel after all this? Fulfilled? Regretful? Why exactly is he protecting me now? Does he care—

No. I quickly shake my head. A monster like him wouldn’t feel a thing… and protect me after? That’s probably just to appease his foolish ego.

My heart aches at the thought, so I make a resolution. I’ll let him protect me until Enzo’s back on his feet and can reassemble the mafia.

I don’t know how long that will take, but as long as I can stay alive during that time, I’ll do whatever is required of me. Besides, I can’t risk dying yet. I have something very important I must accomplish…

Taking revenge on Adriano Bellandini for everything he’s done to me and my loved ones.

Chapter eighteen

Adriano

The Next Day

Dean Rossi was one twisted motherfucker.

I thought his consigliere, Silvio Esposito, was a mere consultant, but no. He’s also a fucking shareholder, right under my nose all along!

After the first botched attempt, where we traced all individuals who fit into the clue Elena gave, I narrowed it down to an Italian who had graduated from Harvard, and we found him. I sent Francesco to pay him a visit in his exquisite condo perched on a hilltop in Montana, and now, the idiot’s unconscious in my basement.

It took nearly twenty hours, a few broken fingers, and the threat of reporting his sick, illegal immigrant mother to ICE, before he finally agreed to move the money from the Rossis’ offshore accounts to an account we provided.

Dean never trusted digital banking for the real money, so he ran it through an old private banker in Zurich. The three accounts were numbered accounts, and all that was needed to cash out the money were the secret account numbers themselves, verbal ciphers, and the consigliere’s own voice on a secure line. A few wire transfers later, and the money is now ours.

The Rossis thought my revenge was complete by reducing their numbers. Heck no. They can always recruit men, but it would take the rest of Enzo’s lifetime to raise the millions of dollars we now own.

I turn the spent brass shell casing Francesco placed on my desk between my fingers, the metal catching the fluorescent lights in my office.

It had been dug out of the marble balustrade at the Rossi mansion when I was leaving, and now Francesco has brought it back, confirming my suspicions.

This isn’t a regular bullet casing; it’s expensive military-grade ammunition. Whoever’s after Elena is rich and has ties to the military. This is getting interesting.

Francesco stands across from me, arms folded behind him. “What did you find on the owners and suppliers of this?”

“These shells were imported recently,” he begins, tapping the rest of the casings on the table. “They belong to the Marini Syndicate, who have a long-standing feud with the Rossis. Apparently, Enzo Marcini refused the distribution partnership they offered a while back, causing them to lose millions.”

No wonder. Gabriel Marini comes from a long line of military men, and the ammunition from his family is usually snuck in from the military reserves.

“What kind of partnership?”

“Transportation. They wanted to move goods through the Rossis’ docks.”

Still, that problem has nothing to do with Elena. If they wanted revenge so badly, why didn’t they make a move on the key Rossi figure—Enzo? That’s exactly what I'm going to find out from Marini himself.

Snatching up my car keys, I grab my jacket from the headrest of my leather chair. Any woman, Elena or not, shouldn’t have to live in fear because some bastard couldn’t suck it up. No wonder Elena was completely silent during the ride to the event yesterday, when she usually can’t stop running that smart mouth.

Francesco continues walking briskly beside me. “The numbers that sent those threats also trace back to burners used and discarded recently by their men.”