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Myplan. Not the Feds’. And damn sure not Rossi’s plan. Felicity and her team never got the chance beyond an initial debriefing meeting to whisk me away into hiding. Rossi got there first.
He’s the one who provided me with cash and fake ID documentation, but he thinks I’m stopping in Augusta. He has an apartment already lined up there for me to move right on in.
But I have no intention of leaving one monster crime lord for another. There would be no point to leaving Rio at all if I were simply to allow Rossi to step into his place as my protector. Or my jailer.
No. From this day onward, I rely on no one but myself for protection. I am strong enough to do this on my own. I have to be, for my own survival and that of my child. No one is going to get in my way.
Only, for every mile the bus travels away from Rio, away from danger, it also takes me farther from the man who stole my heart and claimed my soul.
And my heart breaks just a little bit more each time.
* * *
Rio
It tookCarnarvon and his team less than four hours to get me out of the agency’s interview room and back here to my office. Danelli has swept the place for bugs, and I have been assured it is clean. At least for now.
When I tell them all to leave me, Carnarvon pauses at the door. The pity in his expression as he stares at me almost costs him his life. I am teetering that close to the edge.
“I can confirm their tip-off came from your wife, sir,” he says.
“About the botched Carbone deal? The shootings?” Of course it would be about the shootings. The horror in her eyes that day has never really left her.
I should have seen that; protected against its negative effects. But when it comes to Bianca, I have always been blind, it would seem.
“Yes, and no. The Carbone deal, but not the shootings.”
That surprises me. I tilt my head in my lawyer’s direction. “Go on.”
“The money laundering. They’re looking for evidence you used the Carbone deal to funnel dirty money.”
“Ah. Easier for them to prove, I expect, than a mass shooting where there are no bodies, no bullets or casings, and no blood.”
“Indeed.”
“Go.”
Carnarvon shuffles his feet, the hesitation raising my ire. I notice for the first time a small white envelope in his hand. I stare at him, and he swallows before darting forward to lay the envelope on my desk.
“This came for you today.”
It is from her. I can almost smell her scent rising up from the missive, even though I know it must be pure imagination.
“Get out. Now.”
This time Carnarvon complies, fear tightening his jawline as he retreats, leaving me alone to brood on the betrayal by my wife. The only woman—the only person—with whom I have ever let down my guard.
I stride to the sideboard and pour myself a whiskey, staring down into the amber liquid and thinking about love and family, betrayal and revenge.
And the rage rises up, and up, until I can no longer think; until I can no longer see the drink in my hand. The black mist, as my father used to call it when it took me, obscures my vision, my hearing, my every sense.
I open my mouth and roar, allowing all the anger and hurt to rush out of me in a torrent. And then I let go and destroy the office around me.
Afterward, I perch on the only unbroken piece of furniture in the space—the high-backed leather chair that used to sit behind my desk.
The desk itself is in pieces, as is everything else in the once-cavernous and always stylish room. Now it is littered with shards of crystal and glass and bits of broken timber. The shelves that held papers and books are skewed sideways or tipped over across the carpet. Artwork is on the floor. The mirror above the mantel opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows is now heavily cracked.
I study my warped reflection, feeling nothing when my distorted face stares back at me.
