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“So, you aren’t in love with her?” I ask with a wicked smirk and receive a threatening growl from my second-in-command.
“No,” he answers on a deep swallow and goes to leave, stopping short when he nearly bumps into Camil, who stands at the threshold ofmy office.
Her ghostly gray eyes stay riveted on Boian as she passes him to bring me a manila folder with the daily reports fromComfort de Elita, the furniture business we use to launder the millions that come throughour doors.
Her eyes finally pull the daggers from Boian’s when she hands me the folder. “Here are the reports. Any news on Greta?” she asks stoically, never betraying how much she heard of my and Boian’s conversation.
“Nothing new,” I answer while I scan the pages that I’m positive Camil has gone over herself at least three times to ensure everything is correct.
“Please keep me informed, Emil.” Camil turns and goes to exit when she stops beside Boian and pins him with a lethal stare. “Try and send me away, you bastard, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making yours a living hell.” Then she walks out the door. While Boian just stands there staring after her, I can’t helpbut laugh.
Boian’s violet eyes swing my way with contempt, but I shrug off his wrath. “I hate to tell you I told you so, my friend.”
“Figlio di puttana,” he curses and runs a hand through hisdark hair.
“Indeed, my friend. Indeed.”
“Deep Seas Fleet,” Lorenzo says out of the blue from his place in the seating area ofmy office.
“The luxury yacht maker? What about it?”I inquire.
He stands, laptop in hand, and places it in front of me. The image on the screen is grainy but clear enough to see a large man with stark blond hair, and in his arms is mymia perla. She’s limp in his arms before lifting her head and thrashing weakly. The man pulls her tighter to his chest just before another figure comes into view and sticks what I can only assume is a needle in her thigh. Greta’s head lulls back, then she’s out. My skin burns with a fury I’ve never felt before when the man bundles her into the SUV before driving away. Greta may have run, but these men took what’s mine. They took the very heart from my chest, and I will rip theirs from theirs when Ifind them.
“I don’t know who the man is yet, but see this?” He pans the shot to the left, making more of the bulky black SUV come into view. “I ran the plate, and it came back registered under Deep Seas Fleet. And, of course, everyone in Europe knows the type of customers they deal with. Smugglers, drug dealers, dirty politicians—the list is long and coveredin shit.”
“Who’s the owner?”
“You aren’t going to believe it, but no one knows. We know it’s independently owned, and the chatter on the streets is that you speak with one man. If you’re approved, and once payment is made, you’re given a completion date and nothing more until the project is completed. At that time, you receive a location and have twenty-four hours to pick up your shinynew toy.”
“What’s the name of the man you speak to?” I ask, and though I know it’s a long shot, I still pray that he tells me it’s Vasile.
“Bernardo Rizzo. Most likely a fake name.”
Leaning back in my office chair, I scratch at my week-old stubble as I look back at the screen. My chest aches at seeing my jewel in another man’s arms, and the unpleasant taste of jealousy bubbles up my throat. Illogical? Yes, still, it doesn’t stop my blood from heating with the need to rage and claim what’s mine.
“I want the man’s name in that video,” I grumble, and Lorenzo nods before taking back his laptop and getting to work. My brain working through my next move, I lounge back in my chair, hands behind my head. “Boys, I think it’s time I look into getting myselfa yacht.”
5
Greta
Surrounded by the beautiful Dolomites, the mountain village becomes a winter wonderland in the holiday season’s early days. It’s famous for its Christmas markets. I long to stroll down the streets and take in the buildings decorated in ribbons, Christmas gifts, and lights strung across their facades. I want to indulge in the famous Loacker chocolate treats in the café and try one of their hot cocoas specialized just for me. I want to joke with my sisters and explore the town with my baby nephew in my arms.
I want my damn freedom.
With each passing day, my memories become increasingly jumbled, and I begin to question what I think I know. Am I really married? Did my sisters and I really have a falling out? We all went through a grieving process after mom died, and I would be lying if I said we didn’t fight like cats and dogs at the beginning, but eventually, we pulled ourselves together and came together asa family.
Or is that all in my mind?
After the incident in his office, I was reluctant to challenge Sebastian by demanding I be allowed to call my sisters. Still, after a few days of being left alone to unpack my thoughts, I approached him with a tremble in my request. Surprisingly, he simply smiled kindly and handed me his phone. I was so elated that it took three attempts to press Addie’s name in his contacts. But that elation soon faded to gut-wrenching disappointment when that dreaded voice came over the line.We’re sorry, but the number you’re trying to reach is no longer in service.That night I cried myselfto sleep.
Can I really be delusional? And if so, how do I get mymind back?
My thoughts are interrupted when Sebastian walks into the room in long strides with a serving tray in his hands, and I hate the fact that I actually find my husband attractive.
Not that I plan on doing anythingabout it.
“Good morning,Uccellino. How did you sleep?” he asks the same question every morning as though his outburst days ago never happened. He sets the tray of fruit, croissants drizzled in chocolate, and espresso so strong it will have me wired the entire day on the nightstand.
