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Her eyes narrow at me. “How did you find out about that? I covered all my tracks,” she says.
She taunts the devil as though she does it every day and won’t get burnt. But she’s crossed a line now that there’s no coming back from, especially if she intends to pursue the stories about our family. “You left a loose end, Izzy. Never leave a loose end.”
Chapter4
Isabella
A chill snakesdown the length of my spine. Lorenzo’s dark soulless eyes look at me as though he could put me in the ground himself. My blood races with fear, but I’ll be damned if I let him see that. “You think I’m a loose end?”
His eyebrows raise, just infuriating me even more.
“Maybe back in Italy people worship the ground you walk on, but here”—I gesture around us—“in this city? You’re just a man with two feet and legs who puts his pants on the same way as everyone else. If you threaten me again, I’ll write an article about it.” I spin on the heel of my dress boots and head for my SUV.
Lorenzo follows me, closing the ground quickly. I don’t have to look back to know. I can feel him, sense him all around me even before he places a large hand over mine. He leans in close, his body pressing against me from behind. “You have the narrative all wrong. Perhaps this time the tables are reversed. Maybe I should call the police, have my employee tell her story, have the camera footage and badge time stamps all sent over to our friends at LVPD? Now that would make for a juicy story, no?”
I swallow, turning to face him, immediately regretting coming face to face with those dark soulless eyes. His body cages me against the side of the SUV. His mouth hovers near mine so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath, smell the muskiness of his skin permeating through the fresh scent of his soap. Everything about this dark and dangerous man swirls indecently around in my brain. “You don’t scare me.”
He observes me for a long minute, giving me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do not write anything more about my family. Do I make myself clear?”
I may be attracted to this man, but men like him do not have hearts. They pretend to want a relationship and then flirt with everything that walks by in a skirt. He’s a thug, plain and simple. He will take and take until there’s nothing left to give, just like all the other thugs in my life. Well, at least one. “I heard what you said. Maybe you should refrain from breaking the law and then I wouldn’t have anything to write. Now get away from me before I make a spectacle that will ensure we both make front page news.”
Lorenzo smiles, and this one even meets his eyes. “Fearless and fascinating, but you should heed my words, Izzy Arden,” he says, turning to walk back toward his family while I get into the safety of my vehicle and try to keep my heart from beating out of my chest. Damn that man and the affect he has on me.
I take a deep breath and start the SUV, heading for home, inching behind the other vehicles that are leaving the same way. The phone rings, and I answer it on the overhead. “Whatcha get at the funeral?” Larry asks.
“Good stuff,” I tell him, making my way to the highway that will take me to my neighborhood and bypass all the congestion of the strip and surrounding areas that will be getting busy at this time of day.
“I haven’t looked at the images yet, but I’m pretty sure that I have one of them placing black roses on the caskets. Each of them did it. I’m hoping that we got footage of Salvatore, Dominic, and Lorenzo doing it. If so, I’d like to do a piece titled Vow of Vengeance,” I tell him.
“Sounds intriguing. What’s with the black roses?” he asks.
I turn into my driveway, park in the garage, and get my purse out, switching the phone from the overhead in the car to my earpiece. “They’re symbolic of revenge. It’s a tradition going way back. Basically, a promise from the person laying the rose to the buried loved one to get revenge for their deaths.”
“No shit,” Larry says. “Well, send me a text when you know more. I have some buyers on the line.”
“Will do, boss. It will be later tonight. First, I’m going for a long swim to rinse the stink of that family from my skin,” I tell him, disconnecting and tossing my earphones and purse on the chair as I make my way to the bedroom to change.
The pool sparkles invitingly. One of the largest draws of this desert home. I dive into the deep end, letting myself glide through the warmness of the water, swimming to the edge before turning to start my laps. My hands claw through the water, moving my body with more speed than normal, each stroke bringing me closer and closer to the edge, before I flip, push off, and do it over again.
When my body is thoroughly exhausted and I’ve managed to rid my mind of the dark-eyed devil, I float to the edge and walk up the steps. Somehow that man manages to arouse me as much as he scares me to death.
I wrap a towel around my waist and dry the rest of my body off with another, flipping on the overhead patio heater before walking into the open concept dining room and kitchen through the patio glass door, dripping water onto the green tiled floors.
I grab a glass from the cupboard and open a new bottle of prosecco and let it settle before mixing up an oil and seasoning to pour on the fish. I slide the glass dish in the refrigerator to let the fish marinade before heading outside. I turn on the gas grill and sit at the round patio table underneath the bright red umbrella which isn’t old enough to have been victimized by the brutality of the Vegas sun yet.
The prosecco is bubbly and light, the aroma fresh and invigorating. I slip my feet onto the other chair and relax in the quiet, with only my thoughts to keep me company. Lorenzo and his cousins have plenty to hide. I didn’t need him to threaten me with a petty crime to know that. If he thinks I’m scared of that, he has another think coming. But just the fact that he’s already threatened me is a wake-up call of sorts. I need to be smart, strategic about my work, not just dig for a story, but uncover a story that’s really worth telling. And I can’t do that if I’m buried under some concrete project in the city or lying at the bottom of Lake Mead with a weight around my ankle.
I put my half empty glass down. I need an insurance policy. One that I can use to keep him from killing me or hurting those I care about. Not that I have many friends, but the few that I do are worth protecting.
My mind is spinning with options as I walk back into the house and change into a pair of leggings and t-shirt, grabbing my laptop before I get the fish from the fridge and head back out onto the patio. I toss the fish on the grill and look up the information I need, reading while I finish my wine.
A well-written story about the Larussios, who and what they were in Italy, how their families came to be in Sicily, migrating to southern Italy and then expanding to North America. It may not put them behind bars, but I can put any spin I want on it. Isn’t that what so many other reporters do? I’ll make the fuckers look so bad they’ll do anything not to let this story leak. I take the last sip of wine and close the laptop.
Because as good as that sounds, that’s not who I am nor will ever be.
I flip the fish and go into the kitchen to refresh my wine and toss a salad. When finished, I take a small plate out to the grill, remove the fish. I turn off the grill before going back into the house, placing the steaming hot halibut onto my salad, grab utensils out of the drawer, my drink and a napkin to sit at the table.
My meal is eaten without thought, too engrossed in options for getting the story that I need for the public who craves the glamorization of this family, and how to keep myself protected while doing it. Once finished, I dump my dish and utensils in the sink, peel the ornamental pin from my long black dress coat, and grab my phone and laptop before heading to my office.
