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All I can think is “Watch me.”
With bone-deep satisfaction coursing through my veins, I pass the envelope to Carlo Sabatini. “Open it.”
He flips through the evidence in front of him.
Pictures of him standing next to a dead man.
A gun in his hand, hanging down by his side.
A look of shock crosses his face before a mask slides firmly into place.
But I don’t miss it. The oh, shit moment. He knows he’s caught when he finally works up the nerve to ask, “Why am I looking at a picture of a dead man, Beneventi?”
I pick up one of the cigars that sat in my father’s case on this desk all week and roll it between my fingers. “Because that’s not just any dead man, Carlo. That’s Thomasso Darpino’s grandson. Funny. I’d think you’d recognize the Don of New York’s heir, especially since he died in Atlantic City. Your city. If memory serves me correctly, you helped find the Russian who killed him. But that’s not the Russian standing next to that body holding a gun.” I wait a moment for realization to sink in, for the mouse to know he’s in the trap. “It’s you.”
Sabatini throws the envelope back across the desk. “A conveniently photoshopped picture proves nothing.”
He fucking wishes.
I clip the edge of the cigar and imagine how good it would feel to clip his trigger finger instead. “You and I both know that photo is the original. You should also know I have copies, as well as the other photos taken that night.”
Carlo throws his chair back as he stands, his round face turning purple in anger.
Matching his excitement with calmness, I hold his stare. “Do you think the grieving Don will care to investigate whether that photo is faked? Do you think he’ll listen when you lie? Or do you think Thomasso Darpino will take one look at the body of the heir to his empire, lying dead on the floor of one of your casinos—with you standing next to him, holding the gun—and then order your death and the deaths of your entire family without question or care?”
My question is met with silence.
Carlo has no answer because he knows he’s caught.
When he sits back down, his anger is gone, replaced now with a friendlier smile.
The smile of a desperate man who knows there’s no way out. “I assume you have an offer to make me, Beneventi.”
Yes, death.
“As far as you’re concerned, there will be no engagement between my brother and your daughter. That’s my only demand tonight. But when I call, Carlo, you need to answer. Don’t get any ideas. If something happens to me or those who are mine, the Don will have the photos in minutes, and you’ll be dead before dawn.”
Carlo Sabatini says nothing.
He sits before me, a defeated man, waiting to be dismissed.
“Go, Carlo. Go get your wife. Get your daughter. And get the fuck out of my house.”
When he stands with a snarl on his face, I know I made the right decision. Carlo Sabatini attempts to storm out of the office but is stopped by Dean, who’s waiting on the other side of the door. Dean escorts Carlo out and follows his earlier instructions to stay with him while he grabs his wife and Emma. Then he escorts them to their car.
Meanwhile, Bash sits up on the couch, elbows on his knees, head hung low. “Is it over, Sammy? The engagement? The shit from this week?”
“Go get your girl, Bash.” This may be over, but there’s still another fire burning hot. But Bash has made his choice. That fire won’t burn my brother, so he doesn’t get to know about it.
“You didn’t answer my question, Sam.” My little brother is too smart for his own good.
I swallow what’s left of my scotch and look at the man Bash has grown in to. “I already gave you more today than you should have gotten, Sebastian. Now, check on Nonna. Help me get everyone out of here in an hour. Then go get your girl.”
Bash grabs the bottle of scotch and refills our glasses. “Is that what you’re gonna do? You gonna go get Amelia?”
I lift my glass in the air toward him. “To the future Beneventi principessas.”
Bash clinks his glass with mine. “To the future Beneventi principessas.”
