Page 15 of Tesoro: Mayhem Makers

Dropping my head, I gaze over my shoulder at Frankie. “You do what I asked?”

Frankie pulls the backpack strap from his shoulder, tossing the canvas in my direction.

“Gold bow and everything.” He dropped his body into the chair Porter brought in. Deep down I know better than to question Frankie.

Unzipping the bag, I reach in and pull out the first box my fingers touch. Keeping my focus on the box, “You mentioned an issue.”

Frankie uncrosses his arms, leaning his forearms against his thighs. “Chuy wants revenge for getting shot.”

“That’s rich, given he drew first blood.”

Crossing the room, I tuck the first box in the corner, flipping the switch on the back and spinning it to face Angelo’s bed.

“Still, it’s the cartel and they lack boundaries.”

Grabbing a second box, I turn my attention to Frankie. “Except one.”

When Joseph took Angelo and I in, he began his tutelage, turning the two of us into him. He said every man has three things: a price, a weakness, and a boundary. Find those and you have power over him.

Leaning back in his seat, a knowing smile splits his lips. “Tell me your plan.”

Chapter

Eleven

KATE

Opening and closing my locker for the third time, I blink my eyes in hopes the red box with a gold bow sitting inside would disappear. Having checked the number twice, I take a deep breath before reaching inside for the box, my fingers trembling as they slide over the legendary name.

I don’t have to contemplate who it’s from, or why it’s here. Dr. Vickers stopped me in the hall and congratulated me on my assumption of a third bullet in Angelo’s shoulder.

Using my thumb, I slide off the gold ribbon, the satin fabric caressing the side of my hand. Lifting the lid, my breath hitches in my throat as I take in the platinum watch resting on the black velvet. Light dances off the diamond facets which surround the face, the second hand moving fluidly in a circle.

There are rules about these kinds of gifts, I silently tell myself as I brush my teeth. Giving it back is the right thing to do, I remind myself as I slip into the bed.

Closing my eyes, I try not to think about Dante. How intense he is, or the way he carries himself as if he doesn’t have a fear in the world. Tugging the blanket around me, I struggle to push away the pull I feel to run my fingers through the thick hair of his.

Knowing this is a losing battle, I push back the blankets, maneuvering my feet over the side of the bed and reach for my bag and, more importantly, my laptop.

Knowledge is power, and perhaps if I knew enough about Dante, it would put my mind at ease and allow sleep to come. Opening the lid, I find a message updating the weather conditions. A pressure system is keeping the snow at bay, the moisture churning as it waits for the wind to shift. In simple terms, I’m here for at least another few days. Checking my message app, I’m sad to see Andi is still ignoring me.

Clicking the search bar, I type Dante’s name followed by enter, mentally picturing satellites lining up in space in order to locate the information I need.

The result is almost instant. Clicking the first link, I read much the same information as Tiffiani, with one stark difference. Dante was married; Bellamia Antonia Sophia Cavaletti. According to the article, they’d met and married in Italy, a lavish wedding with a guest list of close to one thousand. There wasn’t a photo, which was probably a good thing as looking into the eyes of the woman whose husband I was fantasizing about wasn’t the best plan.

I went on to read about various crimes he was accused of, yet never convicted, the author clearly not a fan of the family. It touched on a few charities the family contributed to, and a race in the south of France they sponsored.

Closing my computer as a yawn escapes my lips, my digging has been successful in quieting the questions inside my head. The Cavalettis may be generous people with a criminal influence, but Dante was married, a boundary I would never cross.

Exiting the elevators, I rush to report as my inquisitive mind made me sleep through two of my alarms. I’d barely had time to brush my teeth, the haze of sleep still clinging to my brain.Stopping for coffee had been out of the question, so I would have to wait until I could snag a break in a few hours.

Stepping silently into the room, I find Porter changing the dressing on Angelo’s chest.

“How is he?”

“No change,” he whispers, securing a piece of tape over the clean gauze. “You look exhausted.”

“Thank you so much,” I feign being offended. “That's what every girl wants to hear first thing in the morning.” Moving around the bed, I performed my assessment as Porter hung a new bag of antibiotics.

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