Page 37 of Wicked Rivals

I could practically hear my sweetnonna’s accented, almost musical voice whispering those words to me, just like when I was a child.

But no longer would I worry about the men in my life using my tears against me, even though her words would never die. It made me feel close to my grandmother, like she shared my grief, my frustrations, my anger, even from beyond the grave. So I never had to carry the burden alone.

Near the tub sat an assortment of bath oils. I grabbed one in an expensive looking glass bottle and sniffed its contents—warm vanilla and flowers.

For a moment, I wondered who it belonged to before realizing I really didn’t care. I poured some into the water, leaned back, and took long, deeply cleansing breaths.

The bathroom was quite beautiful, the walls a soothing earthy yellow with green millwork and little pops of blue accents here and there. Italian stone tiles covered the floor, and the tub, toilet, and sinks matched each other in their soft, gleaming white.

The color scheme evoked the Tuscan countryside, with no expense spared in bringing a bit of the old country into the new.

Both bedrooms in this suite of ours shared the overall scheme, though mine had lighter, airy accents like a vase of white and yellow roses, while Enzo’s room boasted darker wood and flowerless plants.

Clearly, this suite was made to be shared by a man and a woman—the masculine and feminine aspects of the same color scheme and theme throughout. Whoever Stefano’s decorator was, the grandmothers would have been proud of their work.

With one more deep breath, I sank under the warm, fragrant water, submerging my entire body to my nose.

Tonight, all I needed to do was process our current situation. I couldn’t leave, not yet. Returning to the apartment wasn’t safe until we dealt with the threat.

But the second it was, Enzo and I were gone. Stefano had said he would respect my choices, that he would ensure our safety, and that we would never have to see him again.

I didn't believe him for a second.

A man like that, a man in power, would never let his only son grow up outside the family business.

Even if Stefano was a rare breed on his own and intended to keep his word, I couldn't risk it. If he got to know Enzo, if he saw in his son what I did, the man would suck my innocent baby boy into his world like a sinkhole opening beneath our feet.

I had to leave. It had to be done.

If I had my way, I would buy plane tickets to Italy and get on a train to anywhere after that. The idea of international travel had always tugged at me, but our documents weren’t anywhere close to passable for getting them through TSA security. We probably wouldn’t make it to the gate.

No, the second it was safe, Enzo and I would head north. Boston maybe. Or Maine. It wouldn't be a bad idea to get out of this cold climate and head south either. Georgia looked pretty. Louisiana had culture and character.

Then again, there seemed to be fewer people out west, where the cities were larger and not so closely packed together.

While the warm water soaked my weary bones, I let myself fantasize about what life might look like for Enzo and me in Albuquerque, Denver, or Seattle. I had enough money. I might even rebuild Con Amore in another city.

Either way, whatever move I made, it would take time I didn't have. So I needed to decide right away and make what preparations I could before our window of opportunity closed forever.

In the morning, I would explore the house, create a mental map of the layout. Once I found the fastest, easiest path from our suite back to the café without being seen or followed, we could make our move.

After that, I figured I would need fifteen minutes, thirty at most, to get into the apartment, gather what we needed, and get out again to be on our way.

I reached over the rim of the tub for my pile of clothes and fished my cell phone out of my dress pocket.

It took a few tries to unlock it with my pruney fingers, but then I opened the encrypted banking app and made the transfers from my offshore account to another one under the name on my new passport ID, moving it in one-hundred-thousand-dollar increments at a time.

The cash would only last us so long.

Maybe only long enough to get out of the city and hide our tracks until I found the next best place for Enzo and me to call home. After that, legitimate bank accounts and plastic and the paper trail they left would draw far less attention.

Whatever I did, I had to be sure no one followed us.

Not Stefano.

Not my own family.

CHAPTER 8

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