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“Hey, do you know when our men apprehended Ariana by the docks? What time was it?”
Gio pulls out his phone. “Eleven twenty-five p.m. is when Malik texted me.”
I nod. “Okay. On the run, in the middle of the night, when no one else is out on the water, it probably took them an hour to an hour and a half to cross Lake Ponchartrain. I want you to look into the places they could’ve docked on the other side of the lake between midnight and two a.m. My guess is they docked somewhere and then left New Orleans by car. If we can find where they docked, we can get our contacts in the police department to tap into the video camera feeds throughout the city to see which direction they went. And, if we can find the boat, we may luck out and find who it was registered to and maybe even some DNA.”
“Sounds like a plan. Is there anything else?” Gio asks.
“Yeah.” I hand him the sticky note. “Here’s a description of the man who approached Sophia based on the security camera coverage. I’ve also emailed you two images of him. Send them to our contacts ASAP so we can get an ID. My thoughts are Irish mob or Bratva based on appearance.”
“Wow. Why would they want to wage war against you? Did your father ever have any dealings with them that went south?”
“Aside from the generations-long feud between the Irish and the Italians, I don’t know.” I shake my head. “But, unlike with Cara’s abduction, not every attack is personal. Sometimes people are just greedy. And with our connections with the Mexican cartels and imports and exports with the Caribbean factions, our organization is a top target for anyone looking to expand their criminal empire.” Gio nods. “Gio?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Nothing like this can ever happen again. Our enemies only attack when they sense weakness. And I hate to say it, but we are weak and unprepared. This attack proves it. This place is supposed to be a fortress after the fortune I spent upgrading our security. And yet, these men bypassed every camera, every sensor, and I have no idea how.”
“Do you think we have a mole?”
I hesitate. I hate to think we have a traitor in our midst. But how else could these men have been so prepared? “Either we do, or Cassio does. I’ll call him and make another order, one that we keep between us, and I’ll tell him to do the same. We keep this close to the vest, and we keep an eye on our men. We need to find out who we can trust and not just the people in our organizations. We need to investigate everyone in our lives, including Caleb Townsend.”
“Sophia’s ex?” Gio asks as he sips his bourbon.
“Yeah. It’s probably nothing, but he wasn’t on the guest list and yet he was the last person to see Sophia before she was abducted. No matter how unlikely it is that he was involved, he’s a lead we need to follow up on.”
“Will do.” Gio drops my gaze, though his tone indicates there’s something he isn’t telling me.
“What is it?” I ask.
Gio finishes off his bourbon and leans forward in his chair. “What about the girl, Ariana?”
“What about her?”
“Do you truly trust that she had nothing to do with this? Just because she’s FBI doesn’t mean she isn’t playing both sides. We know that from experience.”
“I know,” I admit. “But, um, there’s something about her that makes me believe her. I mean, you know me, I don’t trust anyone. So, I can’t say that I trust she won’t turn on us. But I do believe her when she says she isn’t here to hurt me or Sophia. She wasn’t a part of this.”
“Then why is she here? You don’t expect me to believe her friendship with Sophia is just a coincidence.”
“No.” I smile. “But that is a story for tomorrow.”
“Understood, sir. I’ll get started on these leads and will have a report for you midday tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Gio.”
As Gio leaves, I exit out of the surveillance footage and, in desperate need of a shower, prepare to turn in. That is, until thoughts of Ariana return to me. “Impeccable timing,” I groan as I sit once more. I know I won’t sleep until I do a little digging into my houseguest. It’s not that Gio’s mistrust has made me question Ariana. It’s just, I can’t turn her away without giving her something, some small bit of intel that will keep her occupied while I prepare for the war that is no doubt on its way.
I grab the black book from the center drawer of my desk and flip back to the year 2003, which, if my math is correct, is the year Ariana’s mother was killed. My father kept a detailed record of all his hits, as do all bosses. It includes the victim’s name, casualty count, date, and reason for the hit. There are three from that year, which means it was a relatively peaceful time for our business. None of the hits are women or have a casualty count of only one. This gives me a sense of relief. Maybe Ariana is wrong. It’s been eighteen years and she was just a little girl when her mother was murdered. It’s possible her memories are distorted. It’s possible my family had nothing to do with— Though there are no other names written on the hit list for the year in question, there is something on the page that steals my hope just as quickly as it came. On the fourth line of the page, there is an ink blot and the beginnings of a letter. It’s as if my father went to write something but stopped before he could finish.
I close the book and place it back inside my desk drawer, before locking it. My eyes drift from my desk to the photograph on the edge. My father stares back at me with a smile I miss. There are only two reasons my father wouldn’t document a hit. One, because it didn’t happen. And two, because it was wrongfully executed, an unjustifiable murder of an innocent based on poor intel.
“What did you do, Dad?”
11
The hallsof the Amato mansion are dark as I make my way across the creaky wooden floors from the third floor to the second. Alister may not have denied my request for help officially, but I could see his response all over his face. He has no intention of helping me. Now that he knows who I am and what I look like, I’ll never have an opportunity like tonight to get the answers I need. So, with enough painkillers in my system to make my cracked rib bearable, I tiptoe through the halls to where schematics say Alister’s office is. I have no idea what I’m looking for or where it may be hidden, but his office is the place to start.
As I move, I cross my arms over my chest and shove my hands underneath my armpits to help keep warm. My oversize T-shirt can hardly compete with the draftiness of the 1800s-era home. From creaky floorboards to wallpapered and wood-paneled walls to the flickering brass wall sconces casting creepy shadows throughout the halls, the place looks nothing short of haunted. And yet, as I round the corner to the corridor of Alister’s office, it isn’t a ghost that nearly draws a gasp from me. It’s the guard posted halfway down the hall. No doubt, he stands in front of the very door I need to open. Quickly and quietly, I take a step back into the darkness from which I came. My simple movement is met with a touch of warmth I welcome and the shocking sound of breaking glass, which I do not.
