Page 102 of Bene

What?

“I’m sorry?”

“The remainder of Miss Falco’s things were moved from her penthouse last week, and the building has been made aware that a realtor will take over the sale of the property. Excuse me, but are you a friend or—”

What did that matter?

She wasn’t here.

Where the fuck are you, Vanna?

“I have to go,” he said, turning away from the front desk to make a beeline for the door. He didn’t have time to stand around and have a conversation with someone who either didn’t have the information he needed, or simply wouldn’t give it to him. Throwing a hand over his shoulder at the woman’s call to him, he added, “But thanks.”

For nothing.

Bene’s mind was still running a million miles a minute as he headed out of the building. Jumping into the still-running Lambo, he was happy to find that he hadn’t managed to get a ticket stuck under the car’s wiper, but that was likely only because he hadn’t been inside for very long. It was the one good thing about this day.

The rest of it was just shit.

Where was Vanna?

That’s what he kept asking as he raced out of the city limits.

Where are you?

Bene expected to find Marcus waiting for him when he arrived at the mansion—best case scenario, really. He figured his oldest brother would be at the ready to rip him a new asshole for being way too late to a famiglia meeting with the boss. Worst case? He thought maybe the meeting would be over, and his father would be sitting in his spot behind his desk, giving Bene that look. The one that said he wasn’t even mad, just disappointed.

He found none of those things.

Nah, because it was a raid.

Of cops.

Like an infestation.

He pulled his Lambo in past the gate, watching the scene unfold up the long, winding Guzzi driveway leading to the mansion. He couldn’t park farther in because of all the vehicles—police cars, a couple of SUVs, not to mention, all the vehicles that belonged to men who would be at the meeting with his father.

Fuck.

This was not good.

What was happening?

Bene jumped out of the Lambo with every intention of finding out. He weaved in and out of cop cars, trying to get as close to the mansion as he could. He slipped under the line of yellow tape that cut across the driveway about halfway up, uncaring that he probably just made more trouble for himself by doing it.

“Marcus!”

His brother turned at his shout, seemingly unbothered by the cop who was readying a pair of cuffs. Were those for his brother? Why?

“Bene, get the fuck out of—”

It was pandemonium.

Chaos.

Men were shoved out of the mansion one after another, two cops per guy. Each had their hands tied at their backs, and the closer Bene came, the more he realized this was getting worse by the fucking second. They hadn’t even used proper cuffs to hold the men of the Guzzi Cosa Nostra, but instead, goddamn zip ties.

What were they?