Page 12 of Depths of Hunger

They have a warrant so they’re allowed to search. Tony and Ralf stayed behind at the wedding, and I don’t know any of Renzo’s men except the butler, who I only glimpsed when Renzo carried me across the threshold, and then once more when they pulled me into the kitchen. As for the rest of the security team, I have no idea where they are. They must have sent a call out by now. It’s my job to wait, and I pray someone shows up soon. I just want this nightmare to end. In the meantime, I’ll just act like a stone wall in response to their questions.

The officer talking to me now, Vincenzo Droppo, exchanges whispers with another officer. I sigh, recognizing the game. As a princess of the Giordano organization, I’ve been through this before. They came for my father once when I was twelve and home on summer vacation. My mother sat me down in the living room and drilled it into my head to remain silent, no matter what. I was allowed to say two words: “No comment.” That was it. I sat in stony silence the entire day, not moving, not fidgeting, my mother’s threat of punishment hanging over me. She would have killed me if I slipped up.

Droppo turns his attention back to me, his eyes sharp and calculating. “Signora Valdici, lei è sua moglie?—”

“English,” I cut him off, my tone is biting. “I haven’t lived here full-time since I was five." My Italian is passable, but if I’m going to be questioned by the police, it’s going to be in a language I have full command of.

Droppo’s jaw tightens, but he continues in my preferred language. “You’re his wife. You must know something.” His eyes linger on the open vee of my robe, and I catch the flicker of desire he’s trying to hide. He’s not bad-looking—gray eyes, light brown hair, and the kind of build that suggests he spends time at the gym. But his position and his smug attitude disgust me.

“Mrs. Valdici,” he says, and the title sends a jolt through me. I’mnot used to being a Mrs. let alone a Valdici. It settles on me like an ill-fitting dress.

I cut him off again. “Captain Droppo, I have no idea who Pietro Russo is. And as for my husband’s dealings, I’ve been married for ten hours. We haven’t exactly had the time to share all the details of our lives.”

It’s not the full truth. I know exactly who Russo is. He turned up dead in an empty field outside of Milano last week. A capo for one of the ’Ndrangheta families. It was big news, and my father had been digging for information. What the hell would a ’Ndrangheta mob boss be doing this far north? And now they’re trying to pin his death on Renzo.

Droppo stares at me, his eyes narrowing. He’s trying to unnerve me, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t working. I want to close my robe, cover up under his probing gaze, but I refuse to give him that satisfaction. Weakness isn’t an option. I’ve never been allowed to be anything but strong. I’m mafia royalty. Men like Droppo don’t get to make me feel small. If Ralf and Tony were here, they’d have cracked his skull for even thinking of staring at my chest. Cop or not.

Droppo leans back against the stove, arms crossed, his expression hard. “Mrs. Valdici, I’m sure you know more than you’re saying. We know who your parents are, and we know Russo was considered a family enemy. You need to give us something, or we’ll arrest you as an accessory after the fact.”

There it is—the threat my mother had always warned would come. When they threaten you, shut them down. “I want to speak to my lawyer.Avvocato.”

Droppo’s mouth twitches in frustration. He’s made a mistake, and he knows it. I’m not under arrest. He can’t legally hold me.

“Return my phone,” I demand, voice cold and steady. His mouth opens, but I cut him off. “Now.”

Droppo’s expression hardens further. “Mrs. Valdici?—”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” I say, leaning forward, my eyes locked on his. “I want my phone. You have no right to take it from me or look at it. It’s not listed on the warrant.” They’d left me alone long enoughto read through it, and I may not understand all the legalese, but I know enough.

A loud crash sounds from the living room, followed by muffled voices. I grit my teeth, imagining the officers “accidentally” breaking things on purpose. “Now,” I repeat, my patience fraying.

The noise in the foyer grows louder, and suddenly, Renzo’s consigliere, Angelo, storms into the kitchen. His presence radiates authority. “Sono l’avvocato della Signora Valdici,” he announces, his voice clipped. “You will stop questioning her now.”

He grabs my arm, pulling me up from the stool with surprising force. “You will allow her to go upstairs and get dressed in private,” he orders, shoving me toward the door. I hurry out, relief mingled with indignation. As I start up the stairs, it hits me—I have nothing to wear.

I turn back, hesitant. “Um, Angelo?”

“What?” he snaps as he walks into the foyer, his focus glued to his phone as he types furiously.

The sharpness in his tone catches me off guard. I’m not used to being spoken to like this, except by family. It takes me a moment to recover. “I don’t have any clothes here other than my wedding dress. I didn’t pack anything.”

He snorts, not even looking up. “Figure something out. Be quick about it.” He stalks away, barking orders at the butler. In any other situation, he’d be dead for talking to me like that. The casual disrespect sends a chill of unease through me. Angelo has a reputation for being temperamental, but I never expected this kind of disdain. I try to brush it off, telling myself he’s just stressed, but his attitude leaves me unsettled. Men inla famigliaoften dismiss their women in public but not so much in private. Angleo’s attitude is going to need an adjustment if he’s going to be around me more.

I push that thought aside and walk into the main bedroom. Heading straight to the walk-in closet, I grab the first thing I find—Renzo’s sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt. I take them to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

The bathroom is luxurious—polished marble, chrome fixtures, a deep soaking tub that looks inviting but completely out of reach rightnow. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, hair disheveled, eyes wide with indignation and frustration. Okay, maybe a touch of fear as well. I look like a stranger in this life. A new bride reduced to sweatpants and panic. This was not how my wedding night was supposed to go. I wanted to at least get fucked by my husband, not fucked over by the police. The timing couldn’t be worse.

I hold the sweatshirt to my nose. Renzo’s scent wraps around me. It offers me comfort although I’m not sure why it should. I wish he was here to deal with this. I take another deep breath and then square my shoulders. Time to stop hiding. Dressed in Renzo’s clothes, I make my way back downstairs. Angelo is on the phone, pacing, his face set in a scowl. The butler stands off to the side, his posture rigid, his expression carefully blank. I nod at him, and he nods back, a silent acknowledgment of the chaos we’re in.

Angelo hangs up, turning to me with a look that’s somewhere between anger and exasperation. “They’re arresting Renzo for Russo’s murder. Idiots. Your mother is on her way. They won’t arrest you, no matter what they say, so keep quiet. Say nothing. Once they’re gone, clean up. Renzo won’t want to see this mess.”

“Clean up?” I snap in a sharp tone. “What the hell do I look like? A maid? When is he getting out?”

Angelo’s glare darkens. “How the fuck should I know? His lawyers are working on it.”

“I thought you were his lawyer,” I challenge, refusing to back down.

“I’m one of them, but I’m not handling this. Now stop asking questions.”

---