Page 8 of Bianchi

Aurora licks her lips. The sight of her pink tongue and the trail of wetness it leaves behind is a distraction that sends a shameful bolt of lust into my gut. Unfazed, she declares, “I’ve already told you, Francesco won’t come for me. You’re just wasting your time and delaying what we both know is going to happen to me.”

She’s adamant that death will be the inevitable outcome for her. I want to prove her wrong, but given that will most likely happen, I can’t. Instead, I rip my eyes away from her and reply, “We’ll see about that, cucciola.”

Aurora sighs heavily. The dull thud of her head dropping onto the headrest echoes around the car, and she mutters something to herself that I can’t quite make out.

Running my tongue over my teeth, I pick at a piece of lint on my pant leg. Lifting my eyes to her again, I say, “I’ll offer you some friendly advice, Aurora. If you want to make it out of this situation alive, get rid of the attitude. It’s a surefire way to end up at the bottom of the river.”

She flinches, and my brows pull together at the slight quiver in her jaw. It’s at odds with the strong-willed woman she portrays. When she turns back toward the door, I shake off the ache that settles in my chest. Pulling out my phone, I bring up the message thread with Massimo.

Romeo

We’re five minutes out.

Massimo

It would have been quicker if you took the helicopter. Just saying, cousin.

I don’t acknowledge his comment because, although it would have, I thought I needed the drive to clear my mind for the task at hand. My phone buzzes.

Massimo

Is it done?

The news of our guest will be best delivered in person. Massimo is the type of person to react, then ask questions. It’s served him well this far in life but, right now at least, it isn’t the kind of leadership we need. If I’m in front of him, he can let his frustration out on me and won’t make any rash moves.

I swipe left on the notification and open up my emails. Since touching down yesterday, I haven’t had a chance to filter through them. My legitimate businesses in Palermo are what keep me clean. Certain people that I do business with—typically politicians and police officials—prefer to operate under the guise of legality. It’s common knowledge what my actual job is, regardless of the front I put on.

When the convoy of cars pulls into the circular driveway of Massimo’s estate, I climb out before Daniele can bring the car to a complete stop. Rain pelts down, quickly soaking my hair and clothes. Does it only ever rain here?

Daniele doesn’t hesitate, stepping from the car and meeting me by the back passenger door. His shoulders hunch, and he lifts the collar of his jacket to cover his neck.

Speaking in Italian, I instruct, “Take her into the house through the side entrance. Put her in the basement and leave the blindfold and restraints on. I’ll deal with her myself once I’ve updated Massimo.”

“Yes, boss.” His words trail after me as I stride toward the house.

The sound of shoes crunching on the gravel mixes with the downpour of rain as I jog up the front steps. I’m intent on finding Massimo and getting a plan figured out on what our next move is, but there’s still an awareness of her. No matter how much I try to brush it off, it’s still there, burying itself under my skin and into my blood.

I push through the front door, coming to a halt at the eerie quiet that greets me. There’s a different atmosphere to the house now than there was yesterday. There’s no low murmur of chatter and people going about their jobs. You could hear a pin drop.

My hand itches to reach for my weapon, but with my guard up, I cross the lobby and head in the direction of Massimo’s office. The squeak of my dress shoes on the white marble floor echoes around me.

With a knock to announce my presence, rather than born out of manners, I push open his office door. I’m fully prepared for a shit storm when I break the news to him. Despite there being a clear hierarchy, sometimes Massimo forgets that I have the final say over things. The lines have blurred and been crossed many times between us and perhaps I’ve been too soft on him, given he’s my family.

I stroll into the room, not caring that droplets of rain are falling onto the cream carpet. Warmth hits me, closely followed by the stench of a man who hasn’t showered in a couple of days. I divert to the window, pulling it open a little before I take a seat in front of his desk. Aside from his laptop and a few manila folders, the desktop is clear.

My face twists, and I wrinkle my nose as I admonish, “Cristo, cousin. Would it kill you to shower? It smells like something died in here.”

Massimo ignores my question. His bloodshot, tired eyes are wide and pleading for information. “How did it go?”

I huff out a laugh, turning away to look out the window. Rolling hills fill the view, the animals grazing, reminding me of home even with the downpour that is yet to ease up. Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I try and fail to come up with the right words to ease him into our new circumstances.

At my continued silence, Massimo urges, “Come on, Rome. Now isn’t the time to block me out. Not when there’s so much at stake. What did you find out from her? Does she know where he is?”

He’s misinterpreted my silence for teasing. He should know better than anyone that I don’t need reminding of the gravity of the situation.

Shrugging, I fix my gaze on him and reply, “She’s in the basement.”

Massimo jolts up from his chair before I’ve finished my sentence. It rolls back, crashing into the bookshelf and rattling the items on display from the force.

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