Page 26 of Thorns of Desire
“One last thing,” he said, sounding apprehensive all of a sudden. “Atticus Popov has been spotted roaming the Omertà territory here in Italy.”
Why in the fuck did Atticus keep popping up everywhere?
“Has he attempted to reach out to our contacts?” I asked, squeezing the bridge of my nose.
“That’s the bizarre part.” Giovanni sounded weary. It would seem I wasn’t the only one plagued by lack of sleep. “He hasn’t. He inquired about a certain… performer.”
I scoffed—of course he did. “Maybe his mistress?”
Atticus was known for keeping multiple women for his own pleasure. He certainly was a horny old man.
“Maybe. Although, who’d fuck that old fuck is beyond me.”
“His wealth and name know no bounds,” I muttered, closing my eyes in frustration. I was too tired for this shit. “Plenty of women go for that shit.”
“Well, I don’t think he was searching for a mistress.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He inquired about a specific woman who performed at the Teatro dell’Opera di Roma about ten, eleven years ago. He seemed curious about whether she had a child with her.” Something nudged at the far corner of my mind, but before I could zero in on it, Giovanni continued. “The Triads must be following the idiot because they also showed up.”
The corners of my mouth tipped up. “I’m guessing you took care of them?”
Knowing Giovanni, he probably skinned them alive.
“I did, but I left a few for you.”
“How generous of you,” I deadpanned, reaching for my discarded jacket. “Drop me your location. I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t end them without me.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve had our fill. The last three are all yours.”
“We?”
“Ghost and me.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Ghost was the best tracker in the Omertà. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
As I made my way out of the house, I caught my reflection in the entryway mirror. My body was clear of tattoos with the exception of a single one on my back, a skull wrapped in thorns and roses. It was the Omertà tattoo, a testament to the training I’d gone through, its symbol of death, sacrifice, and vow a perfect depiction of its meaning.
All that work had inevitably changed me. I often dreamed of drowning in blood, of it filling my mouth and choking me. The dreams started back when I watched everyone I loved be killedoff—my parents who I barely remembered, my brother, and Enrico’s brother.
It was the reason I never married. It was the reason for my lack of commitment. It was the reason I hadn’t started a family. I’d seen and tasted too much death, and it always came close, brushing against the ones I loved or taking them away.
So I settled for passing flings as I became stronger and more brutal. I’d gone through thick and thin with Enrico, having his back the same way he had mine. The gruesome tasks we’d performed had hardened both of us.
Torture and killing became second nature to me, work I learned to love. It earned me both respect and fear from my enemies. The things I needed to do in order to stay on top weighed on my soul, a vicious, never-ending cycle. Not that I believed my soul could be saved.
All this ensured the survival of the Marchetti name. That was what family meant to us: protect our own at all costs. But it did come at a cost—front-row seat to death and lack of rest. Most nights, I slept three to four hours max.
Until the night I hadher. The mysterious Athena. I hadn’t slept that soundly in years.
One helicopter ride later, I walked inside the warehouse where Giovanni Agosti and Ghost casually played cornhole while three men hung off the ceiling. The metallic smell filled the space and my nostrils, the floor sticky under my leather shoes.
It wasn’t the pool of blood all over the floor that surprised me, nor the men hanging off the ceiling, but rather the two grown men playing a game—an American game at that.
“Ma che cazzo?”
Both of them lifted their heads.
