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His head tips slightly to one side and he gives his patented Sandro sneer. “I know youclaimto be loyal. And yet here you are, sleeping with the enemy.”
“You’re not listening to me,” I tell him impatiently. “You’re missing thepoint.”
“Get to it.”
I pause, considering my words more carefully. “They want to turn me into their weapon,” I say eventually. “They think my loyalty is something they can buy with promises and flattery—and really great sex, which to be honest, is probably what comes closer than the first two things, but of course,” I finish in a rush as Sandro glowers, “I still never would.”
Sandro’s eyes narrow and he leans back in his chair. “So what did they offer you?”
“Vagueness, mostly. But I think they mean to support me in a claim for your job, and then an alliance. Neither of which are things I want.” Sandro doesn’t look like he believes me. “Our father wanted that,” I concede. “It was why he tried to have you killed, after all.” The clench of his jaw suggests that is not going to be a profitable avenue. “But you must see, Sandro, that I’m not at all suited to being ‘The Boss.’ Not likeyou.”
“Not being suited to it and not wanting it are two different things,” he points out, but the fever-scent has diminished. “What I want to know is—“
A knock at the door disturbs us. At Sandro’s call, Massimo Pedretti comes into the room. “Jack’s arrived, Boss,” he says to Sandro. He gives a nod of greeting to me, too. “Just passed the gate.”
I quite like Pedretti. I looked up his background file once, and he used to work in one of the most successful bank robbing syndicates this century. I’m not sure why he quit and joined the Family, but we take all types here. Pedretti is always very calm. Stoic, even, one might call him. Stoic and dedicated and very good at his security job, which makes him a challenge at times. On a few occasions I’ve considered killing him, but I know Sandro wouldn’t approve, so I’ve managed to find ways to work around him instead.
“Send him straight in when he gets up to the house,” Sandro says. When the door closes again, he looks at me. “Why don’t we wait for Jack to arrive, and you can tell him your story, too?”
“You say that like I’m making up some fairy tale,” I protest, but at least Jack will hear me out. Sandro doesn’t want to believe me, but Jack will. He’ll also probably have a few ideas of his own to contribute.
“Before Jack gets here,” Sandro says, “what was that stunt you pulled with Lombardo? He came in and threw himself at my feet, weeping and begging forgiveness for sleeping with your mother.”
I don’t like the way he says it. That haughty disdain, the things unsaid. He sounds exactly likehismother, who always insults mine.The whore. That’s what Sandro’s mother always calls mine, and it makes me hate her a little more each time.
“I thought he was the killer,” I tell him with a shrug. “I saw him that day, with my mother.”
“Yousawhim?”
“Saw him, heard him, watched my mother embracing him. Saw him drown her.”
Sandro looks incredulous. “You’veneverraised this before.”
“I never had any evidence. It’s not as though you ever believe anything I say, is it, Sandro? Nor did Ciro. I’m looking for evidence beyond my own eyes, since no one trusts them.”
Not even me. But I don’t add that.
“I don’t buy it,” Sandro says. “If you truly thought Lombardo was the man, why is he still breathing? If you’ve known all this time, you’ve had years in which to kill him.”
I give an exasperated tut. “Because I follow Don Castellani’s orders. OfcourseI raised it with Ciro. He didn’t believe me. No more do you. So when I have hard evidence, I’ll bring it to you.”
Sandro shakes his head a little. “Julian,” he says, and his voice is almost soft. Almost. “Has it not occurred to you thatifyour mother was murdered—and you are the only one who seems to think it, butifshe was—and if she was sleeping with another man, then the most obvious suspect—“
“Is Ciro,” I say shortly. “Yes, Sandro. That genius insight has occurred to me. But I know what I saw that day.” I lean over the desk, let my eyes bore into his. “I saw Lombardo drown my mother. Not Ciro.Lombardo. And as much as he might come crying to you and hide behind your well-fitting pant legs, it will not save him when I find hard evidence for it. Because you gave me your word, didn’t you? You gave me your word that when I found the killer—proved it to you—you would let me take my vengeance.”
Sandro’s eyes don’t falter. He holds my gaze without even an increase in his breath or a clench of his fist on the desktop. “I gave you my word,” he agrees. “Whenyou find evidence. But I will tell you this much, Julian. I don’t think Lombardo would be fool enough to murder our father’s wife and then hang around another quarter of a century. If hehaddone it, he would have left the city the same day. Lawyer or not, he wouldn’t gamble on bluffing his way out.”
Sandro is right about that. I don’t like it...
But hedoeshave a point.
“Have you looked at the autopsy results?” Sandro asks.
“No autopsy.”
“No autopsy?”
For the first time, I seem to have his attention. “Of course not. She died of natural causes according to the death certificate, just like our father died of a heart attack. Correct?”
