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“Don’t touch me!” He turns on her, but she’s quick,pulling a syringe out of her uniform and stabbing him. Almost instantly, his posture relaxes.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you’d be here, otherwise I’d have not let him go in by himself.”
“It’s fine,” I reply shakily, despite not feeling fine at all.
She guides him through the open door and out of the library, just as she’s about to leave she turns back to me. “Please tell Mr. Santoro this will not happen again.”
I nod, confused as hell and a little scared, if I’m honest with myself. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, threatening to break through my ribcage as, with trembling hands, I pick up my things and leave the room.
My head is a jumble of information and uncertainties. He could be wrong. He may have been mistaken. For all I know, Massimo could be a madman. But…something in me tells me he’s the first person who’s been totally honest with me. All this time, like a fool, I’ve been four moves behind, running in the dark whilst trying to catch up, while he’s been playing games with me. It’s clear as day now that he knows a lot more than he’s been letting on. What Dante doesn’t know, though, is that I’m a worthy adversary. And let’s not forget the bomb Angelo dropped on me. If Dante think he can just fuck around with me and forgt to mention he’s promised to marry another he’s sorely mistaken.
He wants to play games? Let’s fucking play.
26
ALESSA
They say money can’t buy you happiness, but it sure as shit can be used as a weapon against Dante Santoro. Especially when it’s his own.
It takes Arrow exactly five minutes to come through and earn the title ofmy hero. They were fully on board once I told them I’d like to make Dante’s life miserable until he fessed up the information he’d been withholding from me. And even whilst dealing with their hacking crisis, they still take the time to send me Dante’s black Amex details and wish me happy shopping.
The plan is simple. Be a pain in Dante Santoro’s ass. Use every trick in my handbook to make him think twice about keeping shit from me. Make him miserable. Well, miserable might be a bit of a strong word, but knowledge is power, and in the last month, I have learned the likes and dislikes of one Mafia boss, my brain storing every little tidbit. I’m fully intending to take advantage of said knowledge and annoy the crap out of Dante every chance I get. Maybe it’s the wrong approach—I mean, the saying goes, ‘you catch more flies with honey’, but it’s the only approach I know.
I need to know how on earth a three-year-old girl he’snever met before ended up withhispocket watch in her jacket. I need to know if somehow Dante and I are connected. And I highly doubt he’d offer that information freely.
A plan forms in my head while I stuff my face with yet another amazing meal courtesy of Lorena, the chef. With a grin on my face, I get to work, and four and a half Bibis later, I am satisfied with my life choices enough to call it a day. God bless next day delivery and credit cards with no limits.
It is not until I go to sleep that dread fills my veins. Lying in Dante’s huge bed, my eyes snap open as the realisation dawns on me.
Technically, I am stealing from the Mafia.
If Dante were Don Corleone, I’d be facing repercussions. My limbs would be in danger of being cut off by a pissed off Mafia boss. Gruesome scenarios of what he could do to me once he finds out I stole his card details and went on a shopping spree keep running through my head. It takes hours for my racing heart to calm down and a few more to fall asleep.
Now, after a shitty night of sleep and a morning shower, I decide to just fuck it.It is what it is. And what it is, is me fighting for myself. Just like I have always done. My whole life, the lesson to not trust anyone but myself has been taught to me over and over again. Why should this be any different? Just because I got two orgasms and somewhat feel safe in his presence doesn’t mean he’s notthe ‘big bad’. Maybe I’m taking the wrong approach, putting myself in a position where the angry bear could come out and end my life with one swipe of his big, angry paw. Then again, poking the bear is my go to cheap thrill after all.
Just in case, I spend the morning looking over the spreadsheets I stole from Dante’s computer. You know, to placate the grizzly in case limb removal is in the cards. Still unable to find answers to my DI-DO dilemma, I decide totake a different approach. If the letters won’t speak to me, the numbers might. They usually do.
I go through each column, trying to spot trends, and finally stumble on something that makes a modicum of sense. There is a correlation between the numbers and cargo being received. On the dates that goods are being delivered, DI is larger than DO, and the opposite happens when things are going out. I try a few things, but it isn’t until I subtract the smaller number from the larger that things start clicking into place. The number I get is similar to the weight of whatever the cargo is. Goods in and out - that’s what the ‘I’ and ‘O’ must stand for. My brain finally lets go of its obsession with finding out what the acronyms stand for, and I focus on comparing the actuals instead. Everything seems fine until I start clicking through the tabs and notice a couple of the weight numbers logged differ from those on the main sheet. I go through each entry, comparing the two columns and find two others that are off.
I note the dates and shipping numbers, plus any other information I might need. The dates are two to three months apart, spread over the last year. Each time the cargo is listed as ‘club equipment’ and signed by the same guy.
M. Conti.
I look over my notes, the picture forming clear in my head. M. Conti and I have one thing in common it seems.
We’re both swindling the head of the Mafia.
My next move should be to find the delivery tracking files or to get Arrow involved so we can find out more about those shipments tampered with. But Arrow is busy and there isn’t much more I can do until I can get into Dante’s laptop. So, instead of worrying, I push the thought to the back of my mind, stretch my arms above my head and finally go to the one place that has been calling to me ever since I stepped through the front door of this mansion.
There isa slight breeze as my bare feet touch the cool stone of the courtyard. Misty tendrils hover above the calm surface of the heated pool as I think back to when I saw Dante’s perfect body glide through the blue water. The day is clear but cold, the ozone in the air mixed with the smell of pine trees, foretelling a change in the weather. A thunderstorm is coming.
Disregarding the voice in my head telling me to turn back around and go inside, I take a deep breath and sit down at the edge of the pool. My legs are trembling as I tentatively stretch them out and ease my feet into the water, dipping my toes in. It takes a couple of minutes of being still, but my body finally relaxes. Soon, I’m swirling the water around, watching the ripples grow then disappear, getting used to the sensation of my feet feeling weightless.
In all my years of running, I never let myself experience this before. Never felt the lake water on my legs, never even had a real bath, always opting for the shower, rushing to get away or get somewhere. It feels odd and comforting at the same time, how my feet float on the surface, pushed out by the water around them.
Before I know it, I’m up, stripping down to my brand new La Perla underwear and walking down the steps until the warm water touches my chin, my eyes focused on the other end of the pool, still a few meters away. It would be so easy to take another step. Then another until my toes could no longer reach the bottom. Let the water consume me. No matter how many times I have thought of this before, I can no longer imagine myself doing it, at least not right now, with answers so close I can almost see them.
“Pools are for swimming, not just standing in them.”
