Page 20 of Gin & Trouble

First on my agenda, skimming the security footage from Dante’s parents’ Garden District mansion. Though his father had been in Sicily for over a year, Dante and his brothers popped in and out of the massive house on a regular basis.

An instant message notification from human resources popped up on my screen.

Adrenaline flooded my bloodstream as I opened the window.

Did Dante have me fired after he sent me flowers?

HR:Good morning, Miss Carpenter. It’s come to my attention that you may have misunderstood the company policy on employee fraternization. Please see attached for clarification.

Why won’t he let this go?

Sighing, I closed the message and focused on the footage. If he were anyone other than a Marchionni, I would have found it sweet that he was looking out for my job—but he wasn’t and I didn’t.

I fast forwarded through a few hours of empty rooms, but slowed the feed when Dante’s mother, Evelyn, walked into her home dragging a roller bag behind her.

What’s she doing in New Orleans?

Last I’d heard, Dante’s father wasn’t expected to live much longer. In fact, he had around-the-clock hospice care in Sicily.

A few moments later, Dante and Zach greeted Evelyn. I couldn’t help but notice Dante’s slumped posture and the phone in his hand. A phone he’d checked several times since he’d appeared on camera.

I glanced at the timestamp on the footage and checked our text messages from Sunday. My traitorous heart sank.

He’s waiting for me to respond to his texts.

The message on the florist card had stolen my breath, but the lost look on his face cut deep. Nothing could change the fact our families hated each other, but I should have handled things differently.

I leaned closer to the screen as he glanced at the cell, dragged his hand over his face, and walked out of view of the camera.

A second message blinked in the corner of my screen, but I ignored it. I was far too busy clicking through the other feeds to figure out where he’d gone.

My personal cell vibrated with an incoming call. One glance at the screen made my stomach twist. My sister, Mia, rarely phoned. Besides the six-hour time difference and the fact she was in hiding, we didn’t get along. At all.

“Hi, Mia.”

“I tried to call Sophia, but she didn’t answer.” She spoke in Italian—a clipped, no nonsense Italian that reminded me of the nuns in grade school.

“She’s probably still sleeping. She worked late,” I replied in English to protect my cover. Drawing a deep breath, I steadied my nerves. “Everything okay?”

“Valentina didn’t come home last night.”

“You know Val. She probably met a man.” The news didn’t thrill me, but it was too soon to panic. Besides, Mia tended to worry. A lot.

At nine years old, she’d written a will and planned her funeral because she’d convinced herself she was dying of Ebola. When I’d pointed out she didn’t look sick, she’d thrown my favorite stuffed animal off the cliff overlooking the sea.

Mia huffed. “I need you to take this seriously.”

“Iamtaking it seriously, and I seriously think it’s too early to freak out.”

“You’ve been in the US too long.” Mia loved to rub my nose in my less-than-Italian ways. To her, all Americans lived in trailer parks, shopped at Walmart, and drank beer straight from the can.

“I’ll speak to Sophia.”

“No. I’ll call her myself.” She hung up.

I love my sisters. I love my sisters.

I repeated the mantra several times, but it didn’t make me feel better. As much as I hated to admit it, Mia wasn’t the only one of my siblings who treated me like I had the plague. I didn’t really know them. We’d grown up on different continents. Sophia was the only one I’d spent any time with, and most days, I still had no idea what was going on with her.

---