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He had gravitas, a good head on his shoulders, knew everything about the family’s businesses, and held the respect of the senior members.
Why didn’t my father choose him?
It would’ve been the logical solution. The prudent solution.
Instead of leaving a power vacuum behind, he could’ve made sure everything would run smoothly after his death.
I went back to my desk, sighed, then opened the folder containing this week’s report Alessandro had handed me just moments before Otello arrived.
“Because I don’t trust them. Not until…”
Not until this Earth was wiped clean of the likes of Fausto.
Not until I found out how exactly my father died.
Not until I made sure every single participant in this human-trafficking operation was crystal clear on my zero-tolerance stance.
Not until I had revenged Sophie.
Sophie.
Fuck.
It had been weeks since she’d left.
Incredibly busy weeks. Weeks with me sleeping a maximum of three hours per night.
And despite everything, she still popped into my thoughts all the fucking time.
“Can we go home to Castello dei Pietra soon?” Cristo sounded like a nagging child.
Fucking annoying.
Though my threshold of patience had significantly lowered these last few weeks.
“We’ll stay here until everything is settled.”
I couldn’t even stomach the thought of going back.
I’d tried. That first night without her, I’d taken one look at the room, then made a beeline to the control room.
She was fucking everywhere: the bed, the shower, even the fucking deck.
I could, without any effort, recall how she felt against me in the jacuzzi. Her scent was still all over the bedsheets—which I forbade the cleaning staff to change.
I locked the room and didn’t allow anyone inside.
Not even myself.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
Ilooked out the window at the landscape flying by. And even though it was a beautiful, vibrant autumn day here in Boston, with temperatures in the low 70s and with a hint of colorful foliage already, I longed for the dry heat, the smell of salt and dry earth in the air, and the pine trees that filled the sky with their deep, resinous scent and which bathed Gabe’s family’s country home in their shadows.
Maybe being there would chase the low-level nausea—my constant companion these days—away.
Maybe there I wouldn’t feel this gaping emptiness.
I could almost hear the sound of the cicadas chirping at night, and I missed the way everything seemed brighter and more vibrant in Gabe’s presence.
