Chapter 4
“Such tragedy.” Capo Tiziano’s wife sighs between sips of her sangria. “I mean, we’d never been friendly… I just always found Filippa Ruffo a little too… Well, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. But, to die in such a horrific way… I simply can’t imagine.”
“Of course,” Ms. Zara responds as I set a tray of finger sandwiches on the table.
“And to think, the police still don’t know who broke into their home,” Capo Donato’s wife says while lifting her wineglass, signaling for me to refill it. “Do you think they’ll catch whoever did it?”
“I doubt it,” Ms. Zara responds, looking solemn. By all appearances, she’s being the perfect hostess, but I know she’d rather be in her sewing room than entertaining capos’ wives and listening to them gossip while their husbands meet with Don Spada.
“Adriano”—the carafe of sangria nearly slips out of my grasp when I hear his name—“must have been devastated when he learned what happened,” Capo Donato’s wife continues. “His home was invaded by filthy thugs, and his wife was murdered. Dreadful, dreadful circumstances.”
The story of Filippa Ruffo’s tragic death has been in the media for over a month. It’s not so unexpected when a prominent billionaire’s spouse gets murdered. A victim of a burglary gone wrong, the headlines read. It seems it was only luck that kept her husband from suffering the same fate.
According to the reports, several witnesses saw Filippa Ruffo depart Brio Saccone’s celebration early after she complained of not feeling well.
Mr. Ruffo, however, was held up at the party.
At least twenty people confirmed that he was engaged by the host in a lengthy discussion about market volatility when the home invasion occurred and Mr. Ruffo’s wife was brutally gunned down.
I busy myself with refilling the ladies’ drinks, but that doesn’t stop the image of a blonde woman with a gunshot wound in her forehead from flashing before my eyes. Goose bumps break out all over my body.
In the weeks following what I consider my “escape” from Capo Brio’s library, that scene has been on my mind day and night.
I’ve contemplated a million scenarios that could have led to Filippa Ruffo’s death.
I’ve also thought of a million and one ways in which I might die.
Will Mr. Ruffo’s men simply snatch me off the street and drag me into a shadowed corner somewhere?
Will they put a bullet in me, or will they slit my throat?
Or, maybe, I’ll be a victim of a hit-and-run, mowed down by a nondescript vehicle while crossing an intersection?
Perhaps they’ll go old-school, planting a bomb on a bus I take?
Would they really care about collateral damage?
Or maybe, just maybe, Mr. Ruffo will choose to kill me himself?
I pictured him sneaking into my room at night through an open window.
I imagined his hands on me as he…choked me to death.
The small matter of a fourth-floor apartment wouldn’t stop a man like him.
Not the man he’s been hiding. Not the man no one else knows exists.
I doubt there’s a person on this planet, aside from Mr. Ruffo’s men, who knows the truth of what he’s done. Only me. I’m the lone witness. And no one in the Mafia world would willingly leave a witness alive. For weeks, I’ve been waiting for fate to catch up to me.
But those weeks passed, and nothing happened.
I haven’t seen him, nor have I spotted his men.
Not the two who came in and, I assume, later disposed of his wife’s body.
And no other suspicious-looking dudes have been lurking nearby.
Now the fixation on how I might die has morphed into bewilderment over why Mr. Ruffo isn’t pursuing my immediate demise.
Why did he let me go? Why did he do it without even threatening me to keep my mouth shut? How come he didn’t bother implying what agonizing things would befall me if I even thought about going to the cops? Nothing. He did nothing. Go now, Little Iris, that’s all he said.
The unknown rationale behind Mr. Ruffo’s decision is driving me insane.
I think his motivation worries me more than the possibility of my death.
It also solidified Mr. Ruffo as an utter enigma in my mind.
I thought I was fascinated with him before?
Now I am irrevocably obsessed. I’ve been thinking about him so much that I’ve actually been hoping to see him.
“Oh, shoot,” Ms. Zara says. “I completely forgot I promised Massimo refreshments during the meeting. Iris, would you please deliver the tray to the old dining room? I know if he’s in his ‘element,’ no one else on staff would dare disturb him.”
“Of course. I’ll do it right away.”
“Thanks, Iris. Oh, and if he…says anything to you about the interruption, just tell him I sent you.” She winks.
The sound of men shouting gets louder the closer I get to the kitchen until it’s ricocheting off the mansion walls. Don Spada is definitely in one of his moods. If the yelling continues any longer, someone will need to fetch Ms. Zara to come and calm him down.
I head to the fridge, grab a pitcher of iced tea, then set it on the tray beside some spare glasses and a plate of fresh muffins I baked this morning.
With a deep breath, I proceed with my load toward the “business” wing of the house, where the wall between the former dining room and the cards room has been knocked down, creating one large space that has become a new conference hall.
The renovated area houses an enormous table that’s able to accommodate the entire la Famiglia leadership and more at one end, and at another, the don’s desk and a cozy sitting nook.
Using my elbow to push the door open, I slip inside. From his seat at the head of the conference table, the don’s angry gaze meets mine the moment I cross the threshold.
“Ms. Zara sent me,” I quickly declare, lifting the tray higher to show him the reason for my intrusion.
That angry expression on Don Spada’s face melts away immediately. “Thank you. Just set it on the coffee table over there.” He gestures toward the sitting nook and turns back to the discussion he was having with Capo Tiziano and Capo Donato, both of whom are occupying seats to the left of the don.
A small grin pulls at my lips. When dealing with an irritated Don Spada, it’s important to know the magic words. Ms. Zara. That’s what everyone at the house calls her. Except her husband, of course. To Don Spada, she is always Zahara. His Zahara. The thought alone warms my heart.
It’s that, right there. That feeling. The feeling that makes it possible for me to work for this man.
To have anything to do with the Mafia world, really.
Because even in the darkness, in the heart of a dangerous man, there’s light.
There’s goodness. Don Spada is a living example of what I have always believed. No one is completely bad.
I pivot toward the nook where two leather sofas and a handful of armchairs are arranged around the coffee table. Don Spada often holds one-on-one meetings here.
One step in that direction, and I almost drop the tray.
Because Adriano Ruffo is sitting on one of the sofas. Alone.
He hasn’t noticed me yet; his attention is focused on the document in his hands.
More papers are scattered on top of the coffee table.
The same table that is my intended destination.
Somehow, even in this casual setting, and while he’s preoccupied, he still manages to look formidable.
But I don’t think it’s his all-black outfit—black suit, black dress shirt, black tie—or his inky-black hair, if you disregard the peppering of silver strands, that are the culprit. It’s just…him.
How have I not noticed that before? How did I ever think he looked kind? Not necessarily friendly, but never like someone with ice in his veins. I know I wasn’t the only one. How did Adriano Ruffo fool me? Fool everyone, if what I believe I stumbled on is true?
Another shiver runs down my spine as I stare at the enigmatic billionaire.
More than a month has passed since I walked in on him in Capo Brio’s library, but to me, it feels as if it happened just yesterday.
Likely because each second of that encounter has been replaying nonstop in my head.
I remember every detail. The almost amused look in Mr. Ruffo’s crystal-blue eyes while I stared at him down the barrel of his own gun, pointed at his heart.
How my fingers trembled as I lowered the weapon.
The way my throat closed up when I gulped the scotch, feeling the burn and its bitter taste.
And I can still hear that rich, husky voice saying my name. Little Iris. The sound made goose bumps break out across my flesh. I keep hearing it. Over and over. Day and night. Like a broken record on repeat. It won’t stop. And I can’t forget it for some reason.
Adriano Ruffo is unlike any man I’ve ever met. He is something else. Something that makes me doubt myself. Clouds my judgment. Keeps me scared. But that fear isn’t alone.
Like some twisted undercurrent, my fear blended with my attraction to him.
A heady mix. A dangerous, screwed-up allure.
It’s tempting me… Urging me to know more.
To unveil the layers beneath that cultured mask.
To discover which side of him is real—the polite, unflappable, civilized man or the primal predator he keeps hidden.
As silently as possible, I advance toward the coffee table.
Closer to him. All while holding my breath.
I’m like a frightened lamb in a wolf’s territory, tiptoeing to stave off being spotted.
Trying not to draw those eyes of his, while at the same time, and deep, deep down, hoping he will look at me.