Page 74 of Taming Seraphine

His features flicker with recognition before forming a blank mask. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where did he put the son?”

He shakes his head.

“Capello is dead, as is the rest of his family. Who are you trying to protect?”

Di Marco’s chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, and sweat gathers over his brow. He swallows over and over, his eyes searching the darkness for an answer.

I extract his gun and point it between his eyes. “Tell me what you know or you’ll die slowly.”

He flinches. “I never learned the boy’s name, but I’m sure you’re talking about the donor.”

“What?”

“Fred had a liver transplant around that time.” He swallows again. “When I visited him at the hospital, he was already drinking champagne. I asked if that alcohol was wise so soon after having major surgery, but he bragged about having the perfect donor.”

“Who?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Capello discovered Seraphine wasn’t his biological daughter because he had tested her and her brother because he needed a new liver. Looks like Gabriel was his perfect match.

“He didn’t give me any details, and I didn’t ask. I assumed it was a black market deal.”

“Go on,” I growl.

His shoulders sag, and the rest of his posture slumps. “Fred had another transplant two years ago. I asked if the liver came from his perfect donor, and he said yes.”

“What else did he say?” I ask, my throat tightening.

“That it only took around two months for a liver to fully regenerate after donating.” Di Marco glances away. “And there was an endless supply.”

“Where is the donor?”

“I don’t know.” He bows his head.

“Capello didn’t trust his lawyer and future in-law?”

“Fred wouldn’t hand such powerful information to anyone. Not even his most trusted confidante.”

“Then why did you put a hit out on the gunman who killed him?” I ask.

Di Marco’s head snaps up. “That was you?”

“Answer my question.”

He raises his chin, his eyes hardening. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

I aim the gun to his shoulder and squeeze the trigger. Di Marco cries out and raises both arms in a full-body flinch.

“Speak,” I say.

“Fuck you,” he growls through clenched teeth.

I fire three shots, each one hitting a limb. He jerks, screams, and shudders. “You don’t want to be stubborn. Tell me why you offered a million to kill the assassin, and I’ll let you live.”

“Bullshit.” He coughs, his eyes glistening. “Either way, I’m dead.”

He’s right. By now, he’s probably deduced that he hired the wrong firm to find the lone gunman. I don’t intend to let him survive for long enough to correct his mistake.

“Then talk, and I’ll put you out of your misery. Why put out that hit when the Capello family is dead?”

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