Page 16 of Last Shot

Grey raised his eyebrows at Nella; even golden-boy Tomaso hadn’t been spared.

‘We may as well hand over our profits to the La Marcas or the latest pierced, ponytailed drunkard masquerading as a boutique vino maker.’

Was there more to Giovanni’s anger besides the potential media scandal that could ensue if these poisonings didn’t stop?

‘If there’s something in the wine making people sick,’ Tomaso countered, ‘the worst thing that could happen is more cases popping up in the media.’

‘Or, you know, people dying.’ A different voice.

Grey turned to Nella, unable to hide his shock. ‘Frankie’s here?’

‘Apparently.’ Nella rolled her eyes. ‘Mama must have promised to donate to Greenpeace again, or maybe Luca bribed her with a new stolen Melbourne Cup survivor in the stables.’

‘No one’s dying.’ The sound of hard knuckles against wood. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the vino.’

‘Father’s right,’ Tomaso said. ‘No chance.’

There was always a chance. Hands sweating more than he cared to admit, he unlocked his phone, covering the screen so Nella couldn’t see. The grey and white criminal was standing with her back to the kitchen camera, head swivelling like one of those deranged clowns at a carnival. Her basically bare arse was pretty much level with the camera hidden in the kettle.

‘Told you to put some bloody clothes on,’ he muttered.

‘Excuse me?’ Nella raised an eyebrow.

‘Nothing.’ Grey locked his phone, his chest tightening. ‘C’mon.’

He pushed through the door with the same feeling in his gut as he would have stepping off a cliff, Nella behind him. The offspring, minus Nella – Luca, Tomaso and Francesca – were all in their designated positions they’d held at the table since their chubby legs had been stuffed into highchairs. No one looked up except Frankie, who waved, her face all teeth and sparkling eyes. Grey just nodded, knowing any obvious movement could alter the atmosphere of the room, which was controlled by the man at the head of the table to catastrophic proportions.

He’d learnt the hard way never to apologise for being late. Giovanni believed a real man didn’t show weakness by admitting fault, but instead made up for it through his actions.

‘I’ll shut down what I can,’ Grey said, taking his seat beside Tomaso, who shuffled his chair away. Not in alet me make more room for youway, but moreI don’t want to catch your contagious tardiness and lack of fashion sense.

Guess Grey not taking Tom’s call last night was less water under the bridge and more spitting lava under a plank of rusted knives. The only time Tom had ever come close to admitting he needed Grey was when his trip to the city was foiled by the car he was in (Bessy’s sister; Irene, the yellow Lamborghini) spinning off course and narrowly missing a tree. Tom had called Grey from the backseat, threatening to fire him if he didn’t get his arse down there and murder Jett. But otherwise, Tomaso acted like the role of the Fixer did not exist.

He tugged at his earlobe as he watched Grey sit, his manicured nails grazing the edge of the same ‘short back and sides’ haircut he’d had since he was seventeen. The earlobe tug was one of Tom’s nervous tics. But Grey couldn’t think about that right now.

Luca was wearing clothes and, as far as Grey could tell, had sorted out the erection. The two men exchanged a look that said:let’s never mention that last time we did this one of us was chasing a semi-naked woman down a wall and the other was swinging a cricket bat futilely at the situation.But Grey didn’t need to worry about Luca broaching the subject of Max at the family dining table. For all his bravado, there was no way he’d risk telling his father he’d not only brought the woman he’d been auctioned off to as punishment back to the estate but she’d also escaped down a trellis and, for all Luca knew, was now running loose in the grounds.

‘I’ll make sure the police don’t get involved,’ Grey added, unwillingly accepting the plate of tiramisu and espresso cup Vittoria placed in front of him. His stomach had been uneasy ever since he’d collided with Max at the auction, but refusing food from an Italian woman was considered treason on this estate.

Giovanni ignored Grey, which was, statistically, the best outcome. But if he wasn’t directing his anger towards Grey’s tardiness, then Gio must be under extreme stress. Pointing out others’ inadequacies was his most marketable skill, after carrying out his late father’s wine legacy.

So, how to bring up a potential murder plot without: a) Gio piercing his carotid artery with a tiramisu fork or b) everyone descending into toilet-paper-hoarding-early-pandemic panic.

Grey sipped his espresso.

‘Has anyone considered the possibility that someone poisoned the wine deliberately?’ Nella asked.

‘Get your toxic positivity away from me.’ Luca shook his head. The rims of his eyes were redder than Grey had realised this morning and his hair was flopping into his eyes like Baa Baa Black Sheep in dire need of a shearing. Grey wished he’d learned by now how to stop what was about to happen.

‘The La Marcas were going to be my next call,’ Grey said as calmly as possible, avoiding Luca’s eyes. ‘After I speak to Poppy Raven.’

‘Of course it has to be the La Marcas,’ Luca snapped. ‘Everything’s about the La Marcas.’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Gio spat. Biscotti and coffee sprayed on the white tablecloth like specks of dried blood.

‘Or what?’

‘I’ll shut it for you. For good.’

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