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“There’s a warehouse in Augusta we traced the IP address to, but the city clerk’s office swears the building’s been abandoned for years.” Boyd pulls up a map, pointing at a blurry splotch circled in red. “Last known business listed to that physical address was the New Hope Assistance Project; an advocacy group for international refugees.”
Ice grips my heart, shattering my bones. I pinch my eyes closed, an ache flaring up in my shoulder as I cross my arms. “The easiest people to make disappear.”
“Exactly.” My father points with his index finger, leaning back in his office chair. Per physical therapy’s instructions, he’s allowed back at the office so long as he adheres to their exercises and limits his mobility, and I can already tell he’s relieved to be back in control.
And frankly, I’m glad he’s here too; after the abrupt meeting and revelation from the other day in my bedroom, I’ve been avoiding my best friend like the fucking plague, and without our barrier here, things would be ten thousand times more awkward.
For now, they’re just medium awkward. A slight tinge in the air that keeps you from relaxing fully.
Boyd clicks out of the window, pulling up the security footage again. “Point being, if someone from an organization like that—especiallyone lacking federal backing, which, according to their most recent tax filings from almost a decade ago, they were—had access to this feed on this night, it’s not totally far-fetched to think that whoever attacked Juliet knew you guys had some sort of connection. And, considering you’ve both been attacked and we’ve received threatening mail, my first assumption would be they’re the same person. And they’re probably an associate of Murphy’s.”
Nodding as he and my father begin reviewing logistics of continued investigation, considering how far to bring in the Montaltos, my eyes zero in on the shadowy background of the tape, sure that I can see something shift. But it’s on the outskirts, almost imperceptible, a ghost in our midst.
But I see it.
Chapter 22
Juliet
The house is eerily quiet when I drag myself out of bed. There’s no toddler babble downstairs, no cartoon jingles or timers going off. Gripping the wrought-iron railing as I creep downstairs, I peer around the corner, scanning the open concept living area and kitchen for signs of life.
Nothing.
Dread swims in my veins, goose bumps popping up on my skin as I move toward the home gym and front room, keeping my back against the wall in case an intruder’s come and slaughtered my entire family, and they’re still lurking somewhere in the house.
After the altercation at The Bar, I refuse to be caught off guard ever again.
My assault is the one thing I’ve been able to open up to Hana about, and only in brief descriptions during our sessions. But Kieran can’t sleep with meeverynight, and the paralysis caused by that feeling of always being watched, always at risk, is starting to take its toll.
Hana thinks the insomnia might be spurred on by a loss of control, and recommended meditation exercises that could help me relax, but each night I spend staring at a faceless ceiling, feeling like the world could swallow me whole if I stopped paying attention for even a second, renews my body’s dedication to staying on high alert.
Instead, I’m trying to take my safety into my own hands. Luca’s been volunteering to teach me basic self-defense, and Caroline gave me a pocketknife she used to carry.Just in case.
Because when you live with and love criminals, danger is ever-present. A constant possibility.
I kick open the door to the gym, noting the unused equipment and emptiness, then turn and make my way back around to the kitchen, scoping the laundry and storage closets along the way. Making my way to the front door, I crouch down and look out the tempered glass window; Elia’s SUV is gone, but these days it always is anyway. Benito’s town car sits in front of the garage, and Caroline’s sensible Camry is parked behind it.
My stomach plummets even further, lurching like a rollercoaster making that first drop, when it’s all you can do to keep your eyes closed as you crest the hill, imminent descent the only thing visible.
Pulling my phone from my pajama shorts pocket, I send both Caroline and Elia separate messages, put out feelers to Benito and Leo and Giacomo—Elia’s right hand, who hasn’t been around a whole lot lately for some reason, but would still know his boss’s whereabouts—and wait, backing into the front door.
The pool off the back patio glimmers in the sunlight, sprinkling in through the large single-pane windows. My shallow breaths fill the air, bouncing off the intricate wall decor my sister changes out every few months. Right now it’s a rustichome sweet hometheme, although the situation makes it feel anything but.
Movement outside draws my attention, and I see a shadow dance along the concrete, just beyond the sheer navy curtains, and I walk over to the counter slowly, unclasping the child lock on the drawer and retrieving a bread knife; not the best option, but it’s the first one my hand comes into contact with.
Creeping over to the glass doors, that hurricane of anticipation swirls around my stomach, destroying everything in its wake, and I hold my breath as I throw the door open, whirling on the would-be attacker before he has a chance to catch his bearings.
I’m not expecting to aim a bread knife into the chest of a retired crime boss-turned-grandfather, but that’s exactly what happens when he spins on me, catching my wrist and keeping the knife from harming him.
He swears in Italian, something I can’t translate because Elia’s second language is a watered-down mix of Italian, Danish, and American English. Pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, he directs my attention to Poppy’s blonde head of curls; she’s asleep in a motorized swing, tucked beneath the shade.
Gesturing for me to follow him farther down the patio, Orlando Montalto yanks the knife from my hand and slips it into the interior pocket of his suit jacket. More than half of it juts out, barely contained, but he closes the flap and crosses his arms over it. “Abreadknife,topolina?Were you planning on serving me with garlic?”
I glare at him; although he looks like a much older version of his son with his salt-and-pepper pompadour and dark, unwavering gaze, there’s a certain seriousness he lacks, as if becoming a grandfather was all it took for the former crime lord to relax into suburbia.
Technically, given how much time he’s spent around the house at holidays and popping in on random afternoons—or late mornings, apparently—he should feel like a grandfather to me. He complains about property taxes, loves gardening, and shows people pictures of his entire family, mobsters included, any chance he gets.
But retirement doesn’t make him less dangerous or important, and I think it’s the stringent air of command that follows him that keeps me from connecting fully on that level.
