Page 64 of Wounded King
He's the type of man who would. If Roberto hurt his sister, I have no doubt Marcello would retaliate. He wouldn't hesitate. The realization that the idea doesn't disturb me as much as it should… startles me. But I've seen too many women rolled into the ER, bruised, broken, terrified. I've held their hands. Stitched their wounds. Whispered that they were safe now, even when we both knew it was a lie because the abuser sat right in the other room.
If I'm honest, during those moments, I've wished for someone to just… end it. To take the kind of man who does that and erase him from the world. But there's a huge difference between wishing it and doing it.
I'm a nurse. I work hard to keep life going. Not to take it.
Do I think abusive men should be punished? Yes. Do I think they'll ever really stop? That they'll change? Most of the time: no. They're like serial killers, only no one treats them that way until it's too late.
But eleven other people were killed too.
A cold shudder rolls through me. That part… that's harder to swallow. If Marcello ordered that, it wasn't just justice, it was a bloodbath.
And if it wasn't him?
Then it only proves what I already know: life in the mafia is dangerous. One wrong move, and people die.
If I gave it another shot with Marcello—assuming he'd even give me another chance—this would be the kind of life I'd commit myself to. And I know what that would do to my mom. That alone makes me want to reach for the basement door in my mind and slam it shut.
I almost do.
Instead, I pull out my phone and send a message to Luciano.
Me:
Any word from Sophia?
The reply is almost immediate.
Luciano:
Nothing.
I'm not naïve enough to think that if Marcello had anything to do with Roberto's murder, Luciano would tell me. But I'm sure he would have said something other thannothing. I type and erase a few replies, becauselet me know if I can do anything, orhug Marcello for me, are all hollow and senseless. Instead, I type.
Me:
Please let me know if you hear anything
Luciano:
Will do
I wait for a few more seconds, but no three dots appear, and as much as I want to type something else, I force myself to put the phone down.
Mallard was right. I didn't like the way Raffael looked at my sister—I didn't give a shit how he looked at Roberto—in the surveillance footage.
Which is why I'm wasting my morning at Stephano's place.
Of all the names rattling through my head, Stephano's is the one that won't settle. I've gone through every angle, every motive, and still, I come up short. I can think of a million reasons why someone might want Roberto dead. Hell, I could hand you ten myself. But Sophia? My sister? Her disappearance doesn't fit. And the carnage at their house? That wasn't strategy. That was personal.
You don't torture servants and guards unless you're trying to send a message—or cover something up.
I'm shown into Stephano's sunroom, all glass and overgrown vines, as if he's cultivating chaos with a sense of style. He's already sitting at a stone table, espresso in hand, sunglasses hiding whatever expression he's wearing this morning. The moment I enter, he takes them off. "I've heard about your sister. Is there anything I can do to help?"
I'm not surprised he knows. His family runs fraud and cybercrime for our organization. He is a little bit of a mystery. He's also a computer genius. None of that matters to me right now, though. I lean forward, elbows on the table, gaze locked on his. "Where the fuck is Raffael?"
"Raffael? You think he has something to do with your sister's disappearance?" He frowns. He leans back from me, but not in fear. He might spend hours at a keyboard, but the definition in his arms suggests he logs serious time at the gym too… and by the way he isn't flinching from me, despite the lack of guards around us, I think it's prudent to assume his muscles are not only for show. He has the flex to back them up.
"Would I be wasting my time here if I didn't?" I press out.
