13. Twelve
Twelve
Fabrizio
A small smile spreads across my lips while a familiar pang of longing pierces my chest as I stare down on my phone’s screen, illuminating the dark interior of the car. I don’t notice the passing landscapes, lights, or buildings as I sit in the backseat with a heavy heart, my eyes fixed on the picture Oliver sent me.
A scene of domestic bliss.
Sienna and the twins are sprawled across the living room couch, buried under layers of fluffy blankets and stuffed animals, most likely watching a movie. Flynn's eyes are glued to the screen, while Maddy sleeps with her head on Sienna's chest. I zoom in on my little girl's face, and my heart tightens. In her peaceful slumber, she looks so much like her mother.
My finger moves until Sienna's face fills the screen. Her features are soft, her lips slightly upturned. She looks relaxed—far more relaxed than she is when I'm around.
I can't blame her.
The car comes to a slow stop, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. The picture I've been staring at lingers in my mind, gradually replaced by my father's voice calling me weak, soft. His favorite saying echoes: "A man's duty is to his family, and his family is his duty."
In an instant, I'm torn between two worlds once again.
The downward spiral of my thoughts is interrupted by the car door opening. I quickly pocket my phone and grab the gun from the seat beside me before stepping out.
Lucas follows a few steps behind as I approach the bar where I'm scheduled to meet Santiago Garcia.
“Wait here,” I tell him before stepping inside La Sombra —a small, unassuming place with dim lighting, rustic wooden beams, and faded, hand-painted murals.
The air is thick with the scent of tequila and smoke, a haze hanging over patrons who, at first glance, all appear to be locals, except for the table by the door where two of my men are seated.
The low hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and occasional laughter doesn't cease as I cross the threshold, but I can feel the room's attention shift toward me. I stand out—my attire sharply contrasting with the casual wear of the other patrons.
I scan the room while moving with deliberate ease toward the table at the far end of the bar, where Santiago sits nursing a drink. His demeanor is casual yet alert, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the wooden table. And he has every reason to be nervous.
For the past three days, my men and I have shadowed him and his crew, piecing together his recent activities and searching for whispers linking him to the recent sabotage of shipments and the incident at St. Anne's.
While both betrayals demand retribution, one strikes closer to home.
It's the reason I'm spending my night in this dive instead of at home, tucking my kids into bed before enjoying their new nanny.
Yet, I can't deny the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins, the tingle of violence spreading through my body, and the comfort of the gun's weight in my waistband. I can't deny enjoying this, at least a little.
"Santiago," I greet him, my voice smooth yet edged with an underlying threat, as I slide into the seat opposite him.
"Fabrizio." Santiago nods at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What a pleasant surprise. Your family hasn't stopped by in quite a while." He leans back, attempting a facade of nonchalance, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him.
"We haven't had any reasons to visit for a while."
"What reason do you have now?"
"Things have happened," I begin, keeping my voice low, my words intended only for Santiago. "Things that are a concern for us."
He shifts in his seat, a flicker of unease crossing his face. He knows exactly what I'm implying. "You know I'm loyal, Fabrizio. Always have been. Ever since I started working for your father."
Like Diego Albizzi, Santiago Garcia has been in my family's employ for a long time, ever since his futile attempt to establish himself in America unknowingly made him stumble into our turf.
"It's easy to speak of loyalty; proving it through action is what counts," I say, leaning back in my chair, assessing the man before me. "There have been disruptions. Goods you send don't arrive, or not in full. You don't happen to know anything about that, do you?"
I watch for his reaction to my underlying accusation.
Santiago swallows. "I've got nothing to do with it, but I can help you find who did." A moment of heavy silence passes between us before he continues, "I'll tighten security. Double the guards on the docks and increase patrols around the warehouses. I'll send extra men with the ships."
I nod at him. "Let's hope for your sake," I say finally, "that you're telling the truth."