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“Well, we all know fidelity isn’t exactly a Ricci strong suit.”
His jaw tics, but he doesn’t take the bait. Perhaps because he isn’t sure whose affair I’m referring to—his or his wife’s. Or perhaps because it doesn’t really matter, since rebutting my claim won’t make it any less true.
“Elena is not like the rest of us,” he says, glancing at the framed picture of her on the corner of his desk. In it, she wears her high school cap and gown and lays in a field of flowers, with the Fontbonne Academy in the foreground.
The picture of scholastic success, although she likely knew even then that her dreams of higher education and a career would be short lived.
Hard to pursue personal interests when your livelihood depends on whether you adhere to certain duties.
Though that didn’t stop her from pursuing me.
Shrugging, I lean forward and set my tumbler on the wood surface, reaching into my trench coat pocket for the letter tucked inside. Pulling it out, I smooth it down over my pant leg, and hold it up for him to see.
“Doesn’t matter if she’s worse. This is a letter I received at the home I rent across town,” I say. “Not mailed, or taped to the free clinic I used to work at. It was slipped directly through the mail slot in the front door of the home, meaning—”
“Whoever delivered it wanted to send a message.” Rafe rubs at his chin with the heel of his hand, scanning the page. “You don’t have to fucking explain to me how blackmail works, Kal.”
Slapping the letter down, I slide it in his direction. “Great. So, then I also don’t need to explain that if they’re not afraid of approaching me, they certainly won’t hesitate to accost Elena.”
“I like to think my name holds a lot more weight in Boston than yours,” he says.
“It doesn’t.” His face reddens, irritation spiking with every new word that falls from my lips. “At one time, sure. But then you got sloppy, and now your main source of power comes from alliances.”
“Watch it, Anderson.” Wagging his finger in my direction, he sits forward, the metaphoric hackles on the back of his neck rising with his anger. “You’re treading a very thin line between the truth and disrespect here, son.”
Internally recoiling at the nickname, I shrug again, unbothered by his intimidation tactics.
You can’t conquer what doesn’t fear you, and with us, it’s always been the other way around.
“The point is,” I continue, ignoring him. “The author of the letter lays out very clearly what they want, and how they’ll proceed if they don’t get it. You ready for your entire operation to be outed?”
“Please. The feds won’t come sniffing around unless the local police give them a reason to, and we won’t have any problems with them. They tend to cooperate.”
“I’m not talking about cops. But since the other families you do business with have supposedly been on a strict no-drug rule since the eighties, I doubt they’ll love hearing about what you’re doing in Maine with the Montaltos.”
Swallowing, Rafe’s tan skin flushes slightly, and he glances at the computer screen again. “I can’t give them Elena.”
Rapping my knuckles against his desk, I nod. “Your funeral.”
Pushing to my feet, I smooth my hands down the front of my suit and button my black trench coat. I snatch the flash drive from where it’s stuck in the side of the monitor, and slip it in my pocket, and turn on my heels to leave.
Disappointed, but not surprised. There are few things the former king of Boston’s underworld cares about other than his image. Apparently, his daughter’s safety also comes up short, which makes my stomach twist as I reach the door.
I’d been hoping to make this easy, and my entire plan, my freedom, banked on his desire to protect his family. Now I need to reevaluate my next step.
I’ve just pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold when Rafe clears his throat behind me, making me pause. I don’t look back, waiting to see if it was an intentional sound, my palm flush with the intricate oak in front of me.
“What…” He trails off, and I turn my head to the side, my eyes focusing on the wall where a massive replica of Michelangelo’s David hangs, combining Rafe’s religion with the one thing he despises most: art.
That’s what planted the rebellious gene in his daughter.
Drove her to me.
“Don’t waste my time, Ricci,” I warn, growing impatient with the silence following his half sentence. I’m way out of line, but I know he won’t do anything about it.
How do you control Death when it knows your every weakness?
Blowing out a breath, he tries again. “You could protect her.”
