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“With what?”
“To disappear.”
Following that phone call, I remain seated for some time, terrified at what I’ve just set in motion. My legs would not hold me up if I were to try and stand right now.
When the lights automatically come on above my head in the ceiling of the saloon, I realize it must be getting dark outside. Rio will likely be back soon.
I am out of time. The decision has been made, and the die has been cast.
Taking a deep breath, I release it in a rush, and then I lift my phone once again and punch in the number I’ve had burned into my memory since the night of the gala ball.
29
“Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.”
Arthur Miller
Rio
There isno trace of the bloodbath that occurred here in my club only three weeks ago. The firm’s cleanup crew is first-rate, as are the construction workers and repairmen on our books. Other than the closure of the club for a couple of days, it is as if the attack by Rossi’s people never happened at all.
And yet it did, and that moment changed everything. I had revenge in mind to weed out the killer of my parents, and I planned to use Carlos Rossi to flush out the perpetrator.
Now, old vengeance can wait. New vengeance has taken its place.
Rossi’s men attempted to hurt my wife and the child growing in her belly. Theykilledmy aunt. Nothing will stand in the way of my retribution. Rossi is firmly in my sights.
I am not concerned at this point about the police. I have long known it is of benefit to have law enforcement on your payroll, and as a consequence, their investigation into the shooting incident was brief.
I am seated in my office above the club, listening to the low thrum of music from downstairs. It isn’t late, but since it’s Friday evening, the music starts early to capture the work crowd who want to party a little before heading home from the city.
None of them seem to know—or care—that multiple bodies were removed from the very floor on which they now dance.
That night—as Bianca told me she was carrying my child—I lost my aunt in the attack on the estate. We buried Francine in the family plot just out of the city in a service attended by hundreds. Tommaso has ordered an elaborate monument to mark her final resting place with honor. When the monument is ready, we will hold another, smaller ceremony with only immediate family in attendance.
I lean back in the chair, unaccountably weary. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to have been born a second or third son, and not the eldest. Or even to have been born into another family altogether, outside this life in the business.
What would it feel like to not have the weight of a whole organization riding on your shoulders? Would I be different? Less inclined to feed the darkness that lies within me? Would I be more suitable for one such as Bianca?
Two innocents together in a life that includes blinkers on and naïveté intact.
Would that be a satisfying life? Or would the boredom of living within the law—living with convention—be our downfall? Would my dark side crave fulfilment regardless of my blood?
I know how Bianca feels about me. I sense the complexity and ambiguity of her emotions every time we’re in the same room. Her beautiful brown eyes cannot lie.
Part of me regrets bringing her into this life, but that other, baser side revels in the fact that the woman I initially thought would need to be eliminated has somehow ended up capturing my heart and taking her place by my side.
Frivolous thoughts. Useless. I need to get back to work. I swivel the chair and pour myself a whiskey from the crystal decanter I keep behind me, and then turn back to resume reading the contract in front of me.
I lift the document, but have only taken one sip of the amber liquid when a commotion breaks out beyond the office door. Yelling and scuffling, a mix of male and female voices. I place the glass carefully on the desk and reach down beneath the desktop to rest my hand on the gun secured beneath. The muzzle points toward the door. Whoever enters will be dead in seconds if they try to harm or attack me.
“No, I’m sorry. Stop! You can’t—”
The door bursts open, and a bunch of strangers tumble into the office, followed by my secretary Dana, who always works late on Fridays, and three of my security team. My hand on the gun trigger relaxes, but only slightly.
I can tell immediately that these strangers are law enforcement. Two men and one woman, neatly dressed and all of whom have an air about them of watchful eagerness. Probably federal rather than local, I surmise. The signs are unmistakable once you know what to look for.
The woman steps forward, waving a paper around in the air before plonking it down in front of me. “Gregorio Agosti, we have a warrant to search these premises.”
