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She sighed. “Just make sure you tell her you love her.”
“I never said that I do.”
My mom’s sigh was as if the weight of the whole world was on her shoulders. “Gabriele Falcone. Don’t make me beat you with a spoon.”
My mother hadn’t beaten us, ever, so the empty threat made me smile.
“Sophie will think you took her back because of the baby. It’s your job to convince her that is not the only reason.”
As always, she was right.
I already knew that.
“How long do you need to plan a wedding?” I asked her.
“Two weeks.”
I closed the distance between us, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “You got one.” And I needed to come up with a plan because I needed to convince Craig Donnelly to pack up his daughters, come to Italy and attend his daughter’s wedding.
My phone dinged—probably with Peaches’ message—and I made my way over to the control room.
I entered and stopped short when Alessio turned around. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs with your pretty captive?”
He made it sound as if I was a creep who would be watching Sophie while she was sleeping.
I ignored his dig, went to one of the computers, opened the search window, and entered the file name Peaches had sent me without gracing Alessandro’s chuckle with any reaction. I double-clicked on the video.
Somehow, I’d expected it to be Sophie—maybe because I’d developed a very unhealthy obsession with searching for and watching Fausto’s videos of her.
So far, I’d found one of her sleeping in the cage, one of her serving me a new drink, and the last one I found was of one of her whippings—which poured gasoline into the fire of hatred I felt for my uncle.
But this one was different. It showed Fausto’s office, his empty office.
“What are you watching?” Alessio rolled over in his chair.
“Something a friend told me I need to see.”
Three men entered the office. Fausto, my father, and someone else. “Who’s that?” I pointed at the screen.
“Salvatore Moretti.”
A moment later, Fausto pulled a weapon, and my father crumpled to the floor.
I blinked.
“Fuck me,” Alessio said, mirroring my thoughts exactly.
Did I really just watch my father’s execution? By his brother’s hands, no less?
Wow? Wow?
And why hadn’t Moretti done anything except gape at my uncle and raise his hands?
Or said something since?
I jumped up from my chair, exchanged a look with Alessio.
“Is Fausto here or in Verona?”
