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Ours—hers and mine together. Because I’m family now.
This… this isn’t right. I can’t do this to Sarah.
But I don’t correct her. I don’t even let go of her hand. “Pip should be on the piano.” I do my best to keep emotion from my voice and fail miserably.
She looks up, pure child curiosity in those eyes. “Are you okay?”
I smile and lie with a bob of my head. “Frog in my throat.”
She giggles. “Ew.”
The reality of this is smacking me around. Sarah calls it our house. Diana shared the secret family recipe for sauce. Lupo has not once made mention of returning to Boston.
None of them believe I’m leaving. Not even the one who should.
I should be furious. Incandescent with rage. I’ve been well and truly stolen from my life. A life I worked hard to build.
Instead, I squeeze the small hand in mine. We finish the census at nine lizards, a house record. The walk back to our house is too short.
12
LUPO
Nothing good comes from a phone call before six in the morning, but I answer it anyway. “Yeah—”
Renzo, my man at the port, talking fast and low. “The Guardia di Finanza hit the terminal an hour ago with a warrant and a route map, and the route map goes straight to our berths.”
Fuck. “How many containers?”
“Nine. All legitimate, Don Sartorre—oil, cosmetics, the usual. They walked past forty other boxes to reach ours.”
“Then why are you sweating? If they’re legit, it’s not a problem.”
He breathes. “They were tipped off, and somebody wants us knowing we were served up.”
I don’t want to think of who might have done such a thing. “What’d they find?”
“Two crates rode with the oil. Pharmaceuticals, sir.”
Fucking Matteo. Not a counteroffer, not a refusal, not even a shot. A donation—his poison gift-wrapped in my name and handed to the state. “I’ll be there. Or… somewhere. Thanks.” I hang up before I get more bad news.
“Everything okay?” Veda asks.
I get up to dress. “Hardly. Go back to sleep. You can’t help.”
That earns her derisive sniff. “You don’t know that.”
“Do you speak Italian? Do you know how to bribe an official on a dock? Are you—”
“Fine, fine. Sorry I offered.” She rolls over.
Great. Now I’m in trouble on two fronts. One of them takes priority over the other, so I’m dressed and in the study by six. Nick arrives with his tie in his pocket and the lawyers already conferenced on his phone.
The morning goes to triage. Which officials take the call, which paper gets pulled, which shipments divert to Rome before anyone else’s warrant wakes up. Rome is busier. More gets overlooked there.
Renzo reports again at seven. “The seized containers sit in a bonded yard under seal. The two planted crates were photographed and logged. Boss, next steps? Our own manifests already match what actually shipped. They don’t include those. It looks bad.”
“Still working on it. The lawyers are in on this too. Sit tight.”
