Twenty-three
Matteo
M y parents were killed because of criminal ties?
No. That can’t be true. It’s impossible.
But the thought burrows in, sharp and merciless. What if it is? What if everything we’ve built—Luster, our name, our legacy—isn’t standing on solid ground at all but on rot? On blood?
The room tilts, and for a second, I swear I hear glass shattering, though it’s only in my head.
Olivier Matisse storms out of the room, angrier than a cat dropped in a bathtub, his footsteps echoing like gunfire. Every instinct in me screams to chase him, grab him by the arm, force the truth out of him. But Ellory squeezes my hand—her anchor, her unspoken plea to stay calm, to stay put.
“I have no idea what Olivier’s talking about,” I say finally, but my voice is flat, lifeless, like it belongs to someone else.
Detective Lenning’s eyes cut to me. “Do you owe anyone money?”
I shake my head, sharper than I mean to. “No. We have a backer for our new venture—Luster.”
His brow lifts. “Luster?”
I keep my tone measured, even, when all I want to do is shout. “It’s a diamond company. We’re developing a luxury line. Olivier is actually one of our buyers.”
The detective studies me too long, like he’s searching for cracks. “Are you certain?”
Before I can answer, Ellory steps in, her voice steady, unwavering. “I’m sure. We’re designing a new collection together.”
The certainty in her tone steadies me for half a breath.
“What kind of collection?”
I pull up the plans and mock-ups on my phone with hands that feel heavier than they should. I pass it to him. He scrolls slowly, eyes narrowing until something on the screen softens his skepticism.
“These are stunning,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” Ellory and I say at the same time.
“It’s a joint effort,” I add quickly, needing him to know this isn’t a front, isn’t dirty money or smoke and mirrors. It’s real. It’s ours.
“Who’s funding you?”
Jim steps in smoothly. “That would be Mason and his team.”
The look that passes between Lenning and Jim isn’t casual. It’s practiced, deliberate, like they’ve had this conversation already and I wasn’t invited. My stomach knots. I file it away, because I’ve learned the hard way not to ask questions I’m not ready to hear the answers to.
But the silence that follows feels loaded, and the unspoken words hang heavier than anything actually said.
Lenning turns back to Ellory, pivoting. “You mentioned frequenting the bar?”
She nods. “Not regularly, but it’s Sophie’s spot.”
“Sophie Haywood—your best friend?”
“Yes. I’ve known her since I was twenty-two. Patrice Wolfe was with us too. She works for Olivier.”
“What’s Sophie Haywood’s financial situation?”
Ellory frowns. “She’s the food editor for The Chronicle , but she’s wealthy. Her grandfather was William Haywood—the architect. She lives in the Pacific Building’s penthouse. She and her dad renovated it together. She came home tonight to find her fiancé in bed with someone else.”
“And Patrice Wolfe?”
Ellory’s voice steadies. “She’s a geologist and gemologist, Director of Gem Operations for Olivier. She’s worked for us over a decade. Deals with all the cutters and designers. Works very closely with my dad.”
“Where does she live?”
“She has a cottage in the Avenues. Small, charming.”
Lenning jots notes, the sound of pen against paper uncomfortably loud, like a countdown. Then he slides a card toward Ellory.
“If anything comes to mind, call me. And if anyone approaches you directly, tell security or reach out to me.”
I nod automatically, but inside, I’m unraveling.
If Olivier is right, if my parents’ accident was a hit, then every moment of my life since has been built on a lie. And if that’s true…then how long before the same lie comes for me? Or for Ellory? Or for Amelia?
I glance at Jim. If there’s even a thread of truth in what Olivier claimed, this could destroy us.
“I’ll look into it,” Jim says quietly. He knows what this company means to me. To all of us.
We’ve always believed my father got the land over a poker debt. Hearing otherwise is…unsettling. If they borrowed from organized crime, why didn’t we know? The Caruso family? Is that Tom Caruso?
I need to talk to my brothers. But right now, I need to be here for Ellory.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into all this,” she whispers. “I should’ve been more careful.”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just grateful you’re okay. Jim’s already going through Willow’s messages.”
She sips melted ice chips and winces. “For all we know, this was random.”
“And I’m sorry about what my dad said.”
“I don’t know anything about what he said,” I lie gently. “The accident happened when I was eleven. I barely remember my parents, but don’t tell Dante. It kills him that Ciro remembers even less, and Gianna…well, she never had a chance.”
Jim appears in the doorway.
I lean down and kiss Ellory’s forehead. “I need to handle a few things. I imagine your dad’s waiting for me to leave so he can come back.”
“Thanks for staying,” she whispers.
She squeezes my hand. Everything in me wants to stay. But protecting her means more than hovering at her bedside. It means finding out what the hell we’ve inherited and what we’re risking by staying blind.
But I need answers.
Outside the room, Jim slides a hand into his pocket. “Let’s walk.”
My gut twists. That’s never a good start. In our family, “let’s walk” is code for “everything’s about to explode.”
We move in silence until we’re outside.
“Willow was out last night,” he says. “Partying hard—coke, alcohol, the works.”
“Great. She’s already racked up a huge bill at the Fairmont. If she paid someone to do this—”
“It was clean. Quick. We’re fairly certain it was professional. Duane didn’t see a thing. A group left just as Ellory entered the restroom. The next person to walk in found her unconscious.”
I exhale slowly. “What about what Olivier said? About my parents?”
Jim shakes his head. “First I’ve heard of it. The letters sent to your mother don’t indicate anything. I’ll check with Lenning, but I know the crime families in San Francisco. Caruso doesn’t ring any bells.”
“I’m calling a family meeting tonight. Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Henry’s place. Will you be there?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks.”
Keith opens the car door for me. “Where to, Mr. Marino?”
The sun is coming up. “The office.” I need to think, and I think best behind my desk. I’m so far behind and after what happened, I’ll never sleep so I might as well get some work done.
The drive east is slow. Outside, the city begins to come alive as it welcomes a new day, but my mind is in a pinball machine bouncing between bumpers.
Could my parents have borrowed from a crime syndicate?
Was that why they were murdered?
And if so, why wasn’t the mine reclaimed? Why haven’t we seen any sign of repayment?
Henry, our uncle and legal guardian, has never touched anything criminal. And Tom Caruso, who’s running the company hasn’t touched anything either. Not once. There’s no way Olivier’s right. But I need to be sure.
At the office, Dana glances up. “You’re here early. How’s Ellory doing?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s going to cringe when she sees the knot on her head and her black eye. But that will heal quick.”
“I’m glad she’s all right.”
“Why are you here?”
“Just trying to catch up. Dante has me working on a project. He’s in the lab overseeing the gemcutter, and Luca’s off with your aunt. Ciro is in his office.”
“You haven’t been home and you’ve had no sleep. Go home.”
It’s not worth arguing with Dana. “You read my mind.”
I head straight for Ciro’s office. He’s surrounded by spreadsheets, as usual.
I tell him everything.
He frowns. “I don’t want to believe it. But…”
“You’d have seen something, right? If Marino Holdings numbers were off?”
He hesitates. “It was two decades ago. If it was paid early—or buried—it wouldn’t show. We’ve always believed Dad won the land with the mine in a poker game.”
“Same. But if there’s even a chance Olivier’s right, we need everyone—lawyer, PI, Jim. We have to get ahead of this.”
“Agreed.”
I call Aunt Rebecca. “You just missed Luca.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I have a question for you.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Olivier made some accusations,” I tell her. I lay out what he said. “Does any of that sound true?”
Rebecca is silent a moment. “No. None of it.”
“I think we all need to meet. How about this evening? I’ll bring the PI handling Willow, the family lawyer, Jim. Maybe we’ll finally figure out what really happened to Mom and Dad.”
Leave it to Aunt Rebecca to turn a possible mob legacy meeting into a dinner meeting. “No problem,” she says. “I’ll put together an antipasto plate and crackers or something?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. Coffee is just fine.”
“I’ll whip something up just in case.”
I send a note off to everyone about meeting at the house tonight at seven. And then I call Jim.
“I’ll get everyone rounded up, and we’ll be there.”
“Thank you.”
I head home and catch Amelia just as she wakes for the day. She wraps her arms around me, and for a moment, everything else fades. I never thought I’d ever love anyone like I do Amelia. I can’t hate Willow too much. She gave me Amelia, and I’ll do anything to keep her.
I feed her breakfast and when Trixie arrives, I leave her with Amelia, take a shower, and crawl into my bed.
But when I lay my head down, sleep won’t come.
I toss and turn, haunted by Ellory’s pale face. By the violence, Willow’s games, and Olivier’s words.
I want to text Ellory, but she needs rest.
I want to scream, but the ghosts I’m chasing don’t answer to fury. If there’s even a sliver of truth, we’re not just playing with diamonds. We’re playing with fire. And I won’t let that happen. Not now. Not ever.
Amelia’s absolutely uninterested in letting me sleep. From my calculations, I’ve had four hours of sleep. About half of what I should get, but this isn’t the first time I’ve lived on a short night.