Page 98 of Last Shot

It hadn’t been enough. She wasn’t out of his system.

But if there was one silver lining about the revelation of Vittoria’s note, it was that at least he’d resisted telling Max what he was really feeling. If he hadn’t had his father’s and Giovanni’s voices in his ear, he would have cupped hers in his palm and whispered what he really wanted to do after the gala was over. After they’d stopped a killer, if there even was a killer. Back in his cottage, just the two of them. Hell, if the kitchen bench was what she wanted ...

Enough.He sipped from his water bottle, which Jett had given him as a peace offering after the wine debacle, even though it wasn’t Jett’s fault that Giovanni had lost it.

Were his feelings about the note rational for an employee who hadn’t been given clearance to something like that? Maybe there was another reason Vittoria hadn’t wanted him to see the note.

Feelings?Listen to yourself. He’d never thought this much about thinking in his entire life.

He couldn’t stop, and it was all her fault that these thoughts were ricocheting off the walls of his mind like a pinball machine. He wasn’t just an employee, was he? This wasn’t just work, this was his life, and like he’d admitted to Max, the Barbaranis were the closest thing he had to family. But was there some truth in what she’d said – that family protects each other? Whatever hurt Grey felt about his father, or whatever it was, needed to be disentangled from his duties to the Barbaranis. He needed to stop reacting like this when Giovanni and Vittoria treated him like they treated every other worker.

But was that actually true? Giovanni was always harder on him. The incident with the wine just exemplified that. Was it because of the army, because they figured they were doing him a favour by re-employing him? Was it because Giovanni and Vittoria had never truly forgiven him for leaving? For what happened to Frankie? But then why bring him back at all? Giovanni Barbarani didn’t give second chances.

Unless it was a debt owed.

Grey had always been suspicious of the Barbaranis’ altruism towards him after he’d been discharged but he’d never questioned it until now. Some part of him hadn’t wanted to know, had liked the fairytale ending he’d concocted in his mind – that the Barbaranis wanted him back because theymissedhim, because this was where he belonged. They’d brought him home. But now – with everything raw and bruised and his father’s voice in his ear about women like Max and Sophie, Giovanni attacking him and ignoring Jett, Vittoria showing Max the note and not him – those doubts were hissing louder.DidGiovanni owe some sort of debt to Grey’s dad?

That would mean Grey was only brought back as a business transaction to the honour of a dead man. And that, he hated to admit, hurt more than what Sophie had done.

Speaking of the she-devil, there she was, right beside Ariana La Marca of all people. Where Ariana was petite and curvy, with spun-gold hair twisted in a knot at the nape of her neck, Sophie was tall – almost Grey’s height – built like an Olympic swimmer with strong shoulders and a long neck. She was as breathtaking as ever.

Some people seemed to be able to ball anger up like thick clay and carry it around with them for years, never forgetting. But for Grey anger had always been translucent and fluid. It slipped through his fingers, burning like liquid fire or compressed sunlight. He kept the burns but they faded over time.

Now, with his mind half on Max, half on finding Vittoria and demanding she show him the note, his stomach and his healed hands barely registered Sophie. He used to justthinkher name and his saliva would turn to acid. He’d see an article in theWest Australianwith her by-line and his toes would curl in his shoes. But now, there was barely anything there.

Strange.

He knew she’d seen him but he didn’t want to acknowledge that. She went back to talking to Ariana – what those two had in common was beyond Grey, but it suited him just fine. Where Ariana was, Forrest would be within a ten-metre radius – ah yes, there, sipping sangue and looking smug next to Raphael. Raphael appeared to be waiting for Grey’s eyes to find his – he raised a glass in greeting and Grey glared back politely. He would never trust that man as far as he could throw him. The memory of his slimy hand on Max’s back had nothing to do with it.

Much.

Skinner hadn’t made an appearance, of that much Grey was certain. Now that he’d spotted Ariana and Raphael, he had a clear picture in his mind of where all the La Marcas and their staff were – like pieces on a chessboard. If they made a move, he’d know.

Claudia La Marca (the Queen), turning her nose up at the antipasto by the fountain.

Ariana La Marca (the Pawn), out of her chef whites and into a long-sleeved charcoal dress, laughing with Raphael (the Knight) and Forrest (the Dickhead).

Matteo La Marca (the King), right behind Grey—

‘Let’s walk, Barbie.’ Matteo’s accent was thicker than Giovanni’s. He had fought hard against the Australianisation of his dialect. Grey somewhat respected him for that, but he couldn’t help wondering if, seeing as he grew up on Australian soil, Matteo’s Northern Italian accent was just a little bit forced.

Matteo nudged him forward. Grey gritted his teeth against the dent in his pride, but no one around them seemed to be paying any attention. The room was swollen now with faces Grey was struggling to recognise, which made the familiar anxiety in him twist horribly – how was he meant to know who could be a killer? What if one of the heads turned away from him was Skinner? He tried to get a glimpse of red before he turned the corner but couldn’t see Max through the crowd of black and white. His stomach twisted tighter.

Relax. She’s a cop. She’s fine.But something felt wrong.

His phone buzzed silently in his pocket. Adrenaline coursed through him when he saw the text ID. Even though she couldn’t break confidentiality and give the details of Libby’s civilian visitors, Alexandra had come through with the names of Libby’s cellmates and women she interacted most with in Semperdom. Grey’s background-checking contact had done the rest.

He opened his phone as discreetly as possible, catching the majority of the message before Matteo said, ‘Let’s not be rude, now, Hawke.’

Grey put the phone back in his pocket, heart pounding at the words he’d managed to glimpse. What had Max said about the conversation Libby was having with the visitor in the hoodie? Something about school ... no, not school ... A name with the first letter of the surname ...

Edie R.

The message on his phone burned through to his thigh as Matteo led him into the hallway with the guest bathrooms and the glass doors to the balcony. One of Frankie’s studded friends was leaning against the door smoking a joint; she gave Grey a lazy wave that he ignored, Matteo’s hand pushing him deeper into the corridor.

‘This private enough for you?’ He’d let Matteo lead him away because he knew from past experiences that Matteo would ask once and then knock him out and drag him if he didn’t comply.

Matteo examined the enclave and folded his arms, stepping closer. He was the exact opposite of Giovanni in terms of height and stature, but the angry, murderous Italian-ness was the same. Where Gio was short and round like a bowling ball, Matteo was the pin – as tall as Grey. Almost. He had a thin silver goatee, trimmed with excruciating precision to a knife point, whereas anything that required more than a rough scrape with a blunt razor was considered an effeminate make-up routine by Gio. And Matteo normally had a lighter, Northern Italian complexion compared with the Barbaranis’ dark, southerner roots, but it was either fake tan or raw red rage that made his face this dark as he spat at Grey’s feet.

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