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CHAPTER
TWELVE
Angelo
I go downstairs on socked feet with my jacket slung over my shoulder. I don’t have to search. I remember the way to the study from my first visit to the house.
After pushing the door open, I take a second to inspect the space like I always do when I’m in enemy territory. I inhale the air, the smell of wood polish and leather, and slide my gaze over the formal arrangement of books on the shelves. They’re not well-loved and often-visited books, but books with golden letters on the spines of matching green leather covers meant to decorate rather than entertain or educate.
I’m not in a hurry. I take my time to cross the floor. At the desk, I drape my jacket over the back of the swivel chair and take my phone from my pocket. I use the screen light to look over the contents on the desktop, which include a laptop and stacks of papers.
A framed photo of the Edwards family is posed on the corner. They’re in a vineyard, smiling and looking happy. Edwards has more hair, and his frame is leaner. He appears proud. His wife stands with a straight back, her smile polished. A young Matilde mimics her mother, standing tall and staring with a closed-lip smile at the camera. Ryan looks up at his father. He must’ve been about twelve. That would’ve made Sabella two. Her dark hair is tied into pigtails, the ends curly. She made a cute kid. If we have a daughter, I hope she’ll take after Sabella. I notice how Matilde poses next to her mother while Sabella is on her father’s side, her small hand wrapped around one of his fingers. Ryan is in the middle, separating Edwards and his wife. They’re not touching or posing with their arms around each other like loving couples do in photos. How close are they really?
As there’s nothing else of interest, I go through the drawers. It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. Edwards puts a lot of faith in his security system to leave his precious notebook lying around in an unlocked drawer. It’s a mistake, a flaw in the system, and I’m good at sniffing out flaws and using weaknesses to my advantage.
I turn the cover of the small, black book. The handwriting is cursive and neat. The first inscription is dated eighteen years ago. Each page contains a list of names, dates, and amounts. Next to each amount, there’s a signature. Proof of receipt. I flip a few pages, skipping to the date when Edwards made the deal with my father. Sabella was only ten. I scan the names, recognizing some of them. A few big ones jump out, people who were high up in government and had since retired.
The names change as the years move on. It’s like a map of the county’s political history, of who’s been in power and who replaced who, but I also notice a few international players—foreign ministers and big names in the mafia. Two of those names are specifically familiar to me. One is connected to the French and the other to the Corsican mafia. A quarter of the book is still empty. It will take at least another decade to fill those pages.
I don’t take photos of the incriminating evidence. I can’t be bothered to go through the pains of proving they’re not forged. Nothing beats the real thing.
The screen of my phone lights up with one or the other notification. I don’t read it. It’s not important. I shut the book and slide it with my phone into the pocket on my jacket. Through the window, the horizon is tinted with deep purple. Sunrise is about an hour away.
I don my jacket and walk through the sleeping house back to Sabella’s room. When I open her door, she’s sitting up on her bed, rubbing her eyes. Her dark hair is wild around her face, and her manner is alarmed. She’s pushed the blanket I covered her with aside, revealing long legs with a golden tan.
She blinks. It takes her a second. Her chest deflates, and the tenseness eases from her shoulders. “I thought you’d left.”
I close the door. “I wouldn’t go without saying goodbye.”
Almost absent-mindedly, she pats Pirate. “Where were you?”
The lie falls easily from my lips. “Bathroom.”
Her eyes grow large. “What if someone saw you?”
The moon has shifted. The darkness in the room is deeper, thicker. It’s impossible to distinguish the black of her pupils from the rich brown color of her irises. It makes her look like a fragile doll with pretty glass eyes, utterly vulnerable and completely breakable.
“I was careful,” I say, resisting the urge to cup her face and sample the smallness in my palm. I’ve already broken too many promises I made myself.
