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As his hostage, I’m not worthy of an introduction, am I?
A waiter brings bottles of red wine and fills our glasses.
“We heard you took a beating. That if your men hadn’t located you in time, you’d likely be dead.” My head turns, and I study Sandro from beneath my lashes, despising him yet still curious about what happened. “From where I’m seated, you look fully recovered.”
“A few taps. Nothing worth discussing.” Sandro sips his wine, his actions a response unto themselves. End of conversation.
Except Antonio misses the cue. “Tough, like your old man.”
“You don’t seem angry,” a younger version of Antonio comments. His son, no doubt.
Sandro sips his wine and forces everyone to wait on his response. I brace myself, anticipating the worst.
“Angry?” Sandro shrugs. “Enough to kill the next fucker who brings it up.”
The old man pales.
His men pretend to study the menu.
Sandro locks eyes with me, and for the slightest second, I feel sorry for him. He’s proud to a fault, isn’t he? And within his sadistic mind, he probably believes being ambushed by an enemy then beaten marks him as a failure. That must feel maddening to a mafioso in his position.
His eyes narrow at me.
I look away.
It’s safer to hate him.
For the remainder of dinner, I mostly stare out at the harbor, feeling very much like the small yacht anchored below, wrapped up so prettily and at the mercy of the tide yet with nowhere to go.
“Conti’s going to be difficult to locate.”
“I’ll find him,” Sandro replies, his tone ice, “and then we’ll never speak his name again.”
A shiver rolls across my skin.
After several seconds of silence, Antonio Jr. clears his throat. “You speak with your stepbrother these days?” His English is perfect; he’s obviously spent time in the States.
“Stepbrother?”
The question hangs in the air like a grenade.
Sandro confessed to having a brother but didn’t mention a stepbrother.
“Dante Lucchese?” Antonio Jr. murmurs nervously.
“It’s true my father brought Dante Lucchese into our home when the old capo di tutti capi became too weak to protect him. True, Lucchese runs Atlanta now. But as for being my stepbrother …”
My attention swings toward the men as they exchange looks. Like they’ve a secret to share …
“What is it?” Sandro snaps.
“Just a rumor.” Pause. “Lucchese will kill me if word gets out. But there was a secret meeting between him and Conti two months ago in Rome.”
“A secret meeting?”
“Yes.”
“But you know about it?”
