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“You said you have a lead. It’s been months. You’re king now and have all the power. I want revenge, Noah!” Sylvia demands when I find her in the study.
She’s sitting in the chair that once belonged to her brother, and it strikes me how much like a mafia princess she looks. Not only does she dress the part, always in Versace from head to toe, but there’s an underlying ruthlessness in her dark eyes she usually keeps well hidden.
Not today. Her brown eyes blaze as she stares at me, and there’s a barely noticeable tic in her jaw.
I take the seat opposite her and look at her from across the desk. “I’m on it.”
“Who is it, dammit? Tell me.” She wipes a tear that’s rolled down her cheek, then averts her gaze. “I need to know closure is just around the corner.”
“His name is Jackson Shaw.”
Her face whips back to me. “Why haven’t you killed him yet?”
“Because I don’t kill anyone on a mere suspicion. I need proof. You better than anyone should know the importance of that.”
Tilting her chin up, she peers over my shoulder at the image of her brother. “You’re more like him than his own sons were. More like him than you were your own father. I miss them both.”
“I know.”
She stands and leans over to wrap her arms around my shoulders. Laying her cheek on the top of my head, she says, “You’re all the family I have left, Noah. If anything happens to you—”
“It won’t.” I pat her arm. “And if it did, I’d make sure you were taken care of.”
Huffing, she jerks away from me and goes to stand by the window. “I don’t care about being taken care of, Noah. I can do that myself. What I don’t want is to be left alone.”
“I’ll be careful, Mother.”
There’s a long silence. Then she shakes her head and turns to me. “You need to do more than that. You have to make sure everyone knows the Giannis aren’t to be messed with. If you want to wait to take Shaw out, I’ll trust you. But the moment you have concrete evidence, I want him dead.”
16
EMILY
Iglance over the new pieces that just arrived. They’re landscapes from an artist in Louisiana that will be a fresh addition to the gallery.
“Never thought I’d say this, but I kind of want to see a swamp in real life,” Remy says. “They’re beautiful.”
“You need to leave the state more,” I tease.
“What about these?” she asks, pointing to the ones I set aside. “Do you want these displayed too?”
“Store them. We’ll rotate them out next week.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
After Noah dropped me off at the house, I dressed quickly and came to work. Dad didn’t say anything to me. Not a single word, in fact. He doesn’t have to. The looks he gives me are far more condemning.
You’re a fool. He’s going to hurt you. They always do.
We walked to the gallery in silence. When we entered, he went straight upstairs and I began the tedious task of curating.
I’ve just moved to the counter to check emails when the front door opens. A man dressed in casual black slacks and a white button-up shirt walks in.
People come and go all day, some to admire the art, some to purchase. But there’s something about this guy that tells me he’s here for a completely different reason.
“How can I help you?” I ask, giving him my most cheerful smile.
