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"Yes. It was odd that he ended up there since I specified no international sales," Andreas frowned.
"You see," Michele turned, bringing his cigarette to his lips. "Noelle, Rafaelo's current wife, was the one who bought him."
"No…" Andreas blinked.
"Lucero was her maid. The maid who knewallher secrets."
"And you used that against her," Andreas smartly appraised.
Michele let his lips widen into a telling smile, but he didn't expand on the subject. Not that he didn't trust Andreas—he trusted him above all. It was just that he didn't know yet what he was going to do with the information he'd obtained.
He hadn't lied when he told Andreas that he never intended to catch Rafaelo.
Maybe in the beginning he'd been pissed about his brother's stupid show of bravery and blatant disregard of Michele's wishes. At that time, he'd impulsively sought out Ortega to wipe out Rafaelo's associates so he could remain alone and helpless—perfect for Michele to swoop in and deliver the last blow.
Yet, with each encounter, he realized his desire to see his brother pay had waned to something…indecipherable.
He was still mad at Rafaelo for what had happened in their youths. That kind of hurt never disappeared, and Michele had done a perfect job of locking all his grudges in one box, using them as fuel whenever it suited him—whenever he needed a little push.
And it had worked.
For a while, he'd been one with his grudges. One with his revenge.
Yet recently, his motivation had been a little sluggish.
He blamed it on the fact that deep down he still harbored some kind of affection for his brother. An affection that had, against all odds, survived all the horrors he'd been through.
He'd never thought it possible, but he supposed time had a way of scarring even the ugliest wounds to something…acceptable. And that's what had happened with him and Rafaelo.
After the initial sea of hurt had worn off, he could see more clearly that there were more factors at play for his brother's perceived betrayal. Now that over a decade had passed, he could judge those situations with more objectivity—an objectivity that had been missing when he'd been in the true throes of madness.
He supposed he was still suffering some effects of that madness—small, deadly tendrils still maintaining their hold of him even as he'd shrugged others off. But he was also smart enough to realize that acting in such anger would never bring him any good results.
Michele had only look at the past and how he'd acted after Nicolo and Cami's deaths. Back then, he'd been seething with so much hurt and anger at the world that he'd struck when he shouldn't have. He'd let his emotions cloud his judgement and he'd attempted to get everything at once.
And that never worked.
No, patience was the key.
Yet he'd only learned that through heartbreaking experience. One that had seared itself on his being and told him he deserved nothing less than an empty life and the numbness currently suffusing his being for failing his son. Because if one removed the anger and all the vows of retribution Michele had sworn on his death-bed, only guilt remained.
Guilt and so much self-loathing that sometimes he could barely function under its weight.
Then, he'd acted in haste, thinking himself smarter than all, and he'd paid the biggest price.
His son’s life.
And ithadbeen Michele's fault. If he had been more careful. If he'd made more subtle inquiries. And if he'd done things gradually instead of all at once, maybe Solomon wouldn't be dead now. Maybe he would still be by Michele's side, saving him every day from his dark thoughts and even darker fate.
But he wasn't. And that also meant Michele had given himself over to that obscure part within himself, selling what was left of his soul for his much sought-after revenge.
Trial and error and here he was. Years and small steps that would lead to a culmination of death and horror.
He was no longer in a hurry. In fact, after killing Cosima and Benedicto and selling Rafaelo, he'd found that his urgency had waned to a simple pulsation beneath his skin—enough that it always reminded him of his goals but not enough to take over his mind in another show of pure madness.
"So that's it? You're letting them go? For good?" Andreas' question startled him from his thoughts.
He spared his right-hand man a glance, narrowing his eyes at him.
