Page 20 of The Beast Who Begged Me

“You’re sure?”

“Certainly.”

“In that case,” I say, “you won’t mind handing over your phone to prove it.” I put out my hand.

Tiberius looks at it, then at me. “My goodness, Mr. Orsini. I suppose I’d do as you asked if I actually carried a phone. But I’ve found it expedient not to. Any phone can be traced, you know.”

“Then who—” Caligula starts.

“Marcello takes care of all that for me,” Tiberius says with a lazy wave of the hand. “I told him to contact you, Mr. Orsini, and he did.”

“Then he can show us his phone,” I say.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Not a fucking inch.”

He laughs, delighted. “Very wise.” He turns his head. “Marcello?”

“Sì, signore?”

“Show Mr. Orsini your text history, would you?”

“Regretfully, I cannot, Signor Vicario,” Marcello says. “I wipe all texts after sending.” He pulls out his phone all the same and shows me.

It’s true. No history of texts at all.

“What a shame,” Tiberius says, and doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s a shame at all. “Marcello, did I ask you to text Cousin Cal and suggest he attend his grandfather’s townhouse on the night of Louie Clemenza’s murder? Be truthful, now.”

Marcello doesn’t even pretend to think it over. “No, signore.” Tiberius might as well have asked if it was raining outside.

“There, Mr. Orsini,” the Vicario says pleasantly, “you have your answer. It seems you’ll have to take my word for it. Or not, of course.”

I don’t know what game this man is playing, but I do know he’s playing one. Guys like Tiberius Vicario don’t do anything without a reason.

And there’s another fact that sits uneasily: Marcello arrived at exactly the right time to peel Pep Pardini and his crew off of me. “Keeping tabs,” I’d called it when I told Caligula, but that’s underselling it. Either the Vicario’s got eyes on Caligula and me around the clock—and that’s bad—or he knew what was coming before it came.

And that’s worse.

I think it has to be that worse option, since he knew about Big Gee’s deal with the Bratva long before I did. Long before Seb Conti did, and Seb was the goddamn Underboss.

Caligula sinks back into the pillows once they’re finally gone, and I curse myself silently for getting him so worked up earlier. The last thing he needed was an extended edging session, for Christ’s sake.

His voice is strained again when he asks, “Do we believe him?”

“Hell no,” I snort. “We already figured it had to be the same person who sent that text to both of us.”

“We figured it might be,” he corrects me. “Because of the use of one little word.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “‘Advantageous.’”

“It’s tenuous,” he sighs.

It’s fucking not. But I don’t push it, because he looks about two seconds from crashing, and I want more food in him before he goes under. “Stay awake. I’mma get you some soup or something. Then you can sleep.”

“Alright, Dami,” he says weakly, and leans back on his pillow. He closes his eyes, and I can tell he’ll be deep asleep by the time I get back, but I can’t bring myself to stir him again.

Tiberius left the gerberas behind, standing in the water pitcher. They’re as yellow as a warning light.