Page 53 of Last Shot

17

Max

‘A minute of your time, Ms Conrad?’

The last time she’d heard that voice, the world had been different. A bomb hadn’t gone off. Greyson hadn’t shown her some part of him he clearly wished she’d died instead of witnessing.

‘Of course.’ Max followed Vittoria Barbarani around the garage where Grey was now inside discussing matters with Jett that she obviously didn’t have the clearance for. Or maybe they were doing whatever it was guys do inside garages together (marvel at mufflers, polish exhaust pipes, watch motorbike porn?).

Although she owned this garage and the rest of the property, Vittoria looked like a doll that had been tossed carelessly into a Barbie Dreamworld she clearly was not manufactured for. Her tangerine kitten heels sank unevenly into the spongy tracks down the immaculately curated driveway, and her black waves of hair, held hostage by tiny silver pins, were breaking free in the afternoon wind. She was barely taller than Max, not that that was a massive feat. She looked most like Luca, with a hint of Frankie in the nose and Nella’s chin. Her posture was all Tomaso.

Vittoria lit a cigarette as she led Max away from the garage to a slight crest where the Barbarani vineyards sprawled out before them, the winter vines strung to the trellises like skeletal prisoners crucified for unspeakable crimes. Max didn’t really smoke anymore, but it was a point of interest that Vittoria didn’t offer her one.

‘How did you know there was a bomb in the backpack?’ she asked directly.

Max shouldn’t be surprised. Vittoria didn’t strike her as the type of woman who had the patience for small talk. Or maybe it was a language barrier – her accent was thicker than Giovanni’s, and Max was sure she’d read somewhere in Kingsley’s articles that Vittoria met Giovanni in Italy, not Australia.

She’d braced for these questions, but she didn’t expect them to come from Vittoria. And now she was on the spot. Grey’s points about the bomb not being Skinner’s style and the connection with Poppy Raven’s death were itching at her. She didn’t want to second-guess herself, or Libby, but Grey had that annoyinglyrationalair about him. Everything about him was meticulously suspicious – of everyone and everything. She knew it was paining him that he hadn’t recognised the backpack for what it was; it seemed like he prided himself on always being one step ahead of everyone. How could she answer Vittoria in a way that didn’t make Grey seem inadequate?

And at what point had she started to care about not making Greyson Hawke seem inadequate?

Lord help her.

‘It was obviously out of place,’ Max said. ‘I’m trained to recognise these things. I’ve done a stint as an airport security guard, so lone backpacks are my bread and butter.’

Vittoria’s expression gave away nothing. She pressed her lips together, blowing out a thin wisp of smoke. ‘You saved us all.’

‘I did my job.’

‘Your job.’ She ran her tongue over her teeth. Checking for lipstick or a primal canine display of dominance? ‘That Greyson hired you for?’

Sweat prickled between Max’s shoulder blades. ‘That’s right.’

‘You realise you are under contract with the Barbarani family when you conduct business on this property, not Greyson?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good.’ She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘Because what I’m about to show you is for your eyes only. Not Greyson’s. You aremyemployee, Ms Conrad.’

Max’s throat went dry as Jackie’s voice breathed down her spine.

‘You can’t tell. You’re my friend in this house, Max, not a cop. You’re my friend and you will not tell anyone.’

Well, she hadn’t told anyone. She’d let her gun and the scar on her jaw do that for her. And she’d lost everything.

But this situation was completely different. Grey was not her friend. He was not her anything. She didn’t owe him loyalty or trust or anything that she’d given Jackie. So why did Vittoria’s demand of secrecy make her feel like her stomach was rotting from the inside? Wasn’t the Barbarani Fixer the family’s greatest confidant? The keeper of their secrets, their lies, their truths? He knew all of their dirty laundry – he was the one who cleaned it – so what could make Vittoria suddenly wary of trusting him? Unless ...

‘You don’t think Greyson had something to do with the backpack, do you, ma’am?’

Vittoria’s lips paused around her cigarette, her mascaraed lashes closed for a second against her cheekbone. ‘He left, did you know that?’ Vittoria said. ‘When he was twenty-one, he joined the army.’

‘I was aware of his previous military appointment, ma’am.’ Max felt her skin tighten, her bones vibrating – she should not be feeling this sense of intoxicating curiosity, not abouthim.

‘Do you know why he came back?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘My youngest daughter locked herself in a thief-proof cellar – one of Giovanni’s father’s greatest brainwaves.’ Vittoria’s voice turned sour. ‘Emilio was always convinced that someone, namely Antonio La Marca, his nemesis, was trying to steal the recipe to the Barbarani Vino. As you’ve now seen, this property is littered with his secret passageways and traps for thieves. The idea behind most of them was that the thief would be locked in, unable to call for help, and would eventually starve to death. Francesca didn’t realise no one was home to hear her “protest”. To this day I cannot even remember what she was whining about – Concetta made one of her favourite chickens into a soup or a cutlet or something.’ Vittoria waved a dismissive hand, and Max felt a pang of sympathy for Frankie, who couldn’t have been much older than twelve at the time.

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