Page 82 of What's Left of Us

He eyes me. “You didn’t ask me for help because you thought I would give up after two seconds.”

“True,” I relent, watching him flip the page and show me the information gathered. My eyes scan the Atlanta address and the New York City one below it. “Who is Carlo Salvatore?”

Conklin closes the notepad. “Your guess is as good as mine. There’s no evidence of a Carlo Salvatore in either New York or Georgia. I searched the name in other states and came up with a few hits, but nobody that has the kind of money he would need to write the checks that The Del Rossi Group is getting. My best guess is that it’s a fake name and company.”

A fake name. “What are you thinking Del Rossi is involved in to get that kind of money from a fake company?”

Conklin clicks his tongue. “Nothing good,” he surmises. “I know this might be out of left field, but there’s only one reason I can think of that would explain why a fake company would give Del Rossi that money. It’s the city, and he’s Italian. So…”

When I look at him, I already know what he’s thinking. “You honestly think this is aGodfathersituation?”

He lifts his palms up. “Logically, it makes sense. We both know organized crime is alive and well in the city. I never thought I would witness it firsthand in Middle Point, but weknow drugs have been moving upstate. It’s not like men in Italian suits are on the street corners dealing out, but there has been evidence in the past of the five families dabbling in drug trafficking.”

Those families were knocked out by the big boss, though. “Drugs caused a lot of those families to dissolve.”

“Which means new families formed.”

And he thinks Del Rossi is one of them or that he’s working for one? “What would you do if you were in my shoes and this was Marissa’s family?”

He smiles at his girlfriend’s name. “I’d want answers,” he admits. “If I’m married to someone, I’d want to know who’s on my side and who’s not.”

I’ve basically known Conklin as long as I’ve known my wife. And he knows that my relationship with her was fast-paced because we went from bonding over being single to me admitting I’d gotten married.

He called me crazy.

I told him he was probably right.

“Nikolas Del Rossi is up to something,” I murmur, eyeing the door of the office we stuffed ourselves into. It sounds like second shift is coming in to take over, so I start exiting out of the tabs and delete the history, just in case. “And I don’t know what, but this smells pretty fucking fishy to me.”

“You really think he’s out to get you just because you married his daughter?” he asks skeptically.

I haven’t been completely honest with the guy, but it’s for his own good. I’ve done my own research on Nikolas Del Rossi and the people he’s been seen with. Including Captain Chamberlin. There are pictures of them plastered online, all smiles and laughter. There’s even one of Chamberlin with his hand on the small of Georgia’s rigid back from two years ago. Her smile is forced. Her eyes screaming for help.

I’ve never met Captain Chamberlin, but if I do, it’ll take everything in me not to punch him in the throat for touching her at all.

I also learned that the Carbone family has the largest growing real estate business in New York State, using The Del Rossi Group to lay concrete on a few developments they put up on the New York-New Jersey line. The more I read about Antonio Carbone, the less I like. And when I saw the headshots of his son Luca, I’d almost put my fist through the screen.

The smug asshole in the headshots on the Carbone Realty website had beenthisclose to getting Georgia.

And I hated that feeling.

“He wanted a very different future for his daughter,” I tell him, stretching my legs out in front of me. “One that I took away from him.”

Conklin gestures toward the computer with his pen again. “With that kind of money, it’s no wonder he wasn’t cool with her settling for a rookie. There’s no way in hell your starting pay comes close to an eighth of what this fucker is getting in two months.”

My nose twitches. “Thanks for that.”

“Did you get her a ring from the twenty-five-cent machine at the grocery store too, or make it out of paper on your salary?”

I’d flip him off if I had a reason to, but he’s not far off. “I didn’t get her one.”

“You…” He sits up, dropping his feet from where they’re perched on the corner of the desk. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you right. You didn’t get yourwifearing? No engagement ring or wedding band?”

There’s a difference between the two? “You thinking about taking that step with Marissa? I wouldn’t have known the difference between an engagement ring or wedding band unless I googled it.”

Or if my mother hounded me about when I was going to buy one for Georgia. She’d brought that up a time or five over the last year.

He blanches. “You’re one to talk. One second, you’re single; the next, you’re marrying the chick I thought was your roommate.”

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