Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty Six
Giovanni
If I stand still, I can hear the heat tick through the baseboards and the grandfather clock in the hall notch off endless seconds. I don’t stand still.
Luca’s study is all leather and walnut and Conti history—photographs, oil on canvas, a brass lamp from the little apartment we were all cramped into when we first arrived in New Jersey.
Roberto sits on the edge of the long table, jacket off, sleeves neat because God forbid he wrinkle, even at a time like this.
Vito is in the corner chair with a legal pad on which he has yet to write something.
And probably won’t because Vito would rather rush in guns blazing than take notes.
Luca stands with his shoulder against the window mullion, profile cut in daylight, watching the drive like he expects it to tell him something.
I make a circuit of the room. My feet know every plank in this floor; my jaw clicks every time I grind a tooth. Twenty-four hours and change.
“Stop,” Luca says without looking at me. “You’re wearing a groove.”
“You’re worried about a groove in the floor,” I ask coldly.
“You need to calm down.” A command, not a suggestion.
“I need information.”
He turns then. The lines around his mouth look ten years older when he’s worried about me. “We don’t know what we don’t know,” he says. “You’re filling in the blanks.”
“Her phone was there,” I say.
“Maybe she left it to charge.”
‘It wasn’t on a charger.”
“Maybe—”
“Don’t,” I snap, and the snap is a whip. I regret it the moment it’s out, but I don’t take it back. “Don’t ‘maybe’ me.”
Roberto says, mildly, “There’s a slight chance it’s simpler than you’re letting it be.”
I look at him. “A friend who shows up at night, no text, no call, and she just… goes? Leaves her keys? Leaves her phone? Leaves her knife on the console?”
“Enough with the knife, Giovanni,” Luca says.
“And if you would look past your own nose for one second, Luca,” I say, emphasizing his name, “you would understand the significance.”
He pushes away from the window now, eyes flashing in anger. He may be the current leader of the Contis, but that doesn’t scare me. I’ve stood where he is now. Did, in fact, for the dozen years he was behind bars.
Roberto comes to stand between us, brave and stupid man that he is. “That’s enough, you two. This solves nothing.”
Vito finally tears his eyes off the blank pad. “Say the word, and I start knocking on doors. And heads.”
“Not yet,” Luca says, voice flat. “This does nothing but bring heat on us, not information. We wait for Nico and Antonio. They should be here soon.”
“If you knew anything about chefs,” I bite out, “you would know how valuable they consider their knives. She would never leave it unwashed. She would never leave it anywhere but rolled and dry and put away. Not on some console with bits of apple rotting on it.”
Roberto’s gaze flicks to me, sharp. “That I believe.” He turns to Luca. “It means interruption mid-task. She put the fruit down because something changed her plan.”
“Changed it enough to walk out,” Luca says, then pins me with a look. “On her own feet.”
“With a man.” I step closer to the table, plant my hands on the wood. “No hand on her, fine. But pressure was there nonetheless. Just because you don’t see it on the video, doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”
Vito’s jaw works. “Then we find the pressure.” He jerks his chin toward the hall. “We have people working on the car’s route. We should have something soon.”
“When we do, we move in,” Luca says, then looks at me again sternly. “You stay behind.”
“No,” I say.
His eyes narrow. This isn’t just my brother now. This is the Don of a very powerful family.
“You don’t question my orders,” he says.
“And you forget who you’re talking to,” I say. “For twelve years, I stood where you stand. For the family and for your family.”
That puts a hitch in his step, deflating his anger. That, and the knowledge that not only did I take the mantle when he was put away, but I stepped in to raise his children when his late wife, Carlotta, fell ill and died.
It’s leverage I’ve never used before and wouldn’t think to use. But this isn’t just any situation, and this isn’t just any woman.
“You know I’m grateful for that,” Luca says. “Always. You think not?”
“I don’t need your thanks, Luca,” I say quietly. “I need to be out there. I won’t stand down while others lead the way on this.”
The door opens without a knock. Nico first, then Antonio at his shoulder.
“What did you find?” I say.
Nico lifts the tablet he’s holding and throws the feed to the television on the far wall with a little flick that would have made our mother bless herself three times.
The screen blinks. The same grainy video from Bianca’s house shows up on the screen, but it’s frozen on one particular scene right before Bianca gets into the car.
My heart skips a beat.
But that’s not what Nico is focusing on. He zooms in on the man’s face, just as he turns slightly. It’s little more than his profile.
My hands are flat on the table, and I don’t remember putting them there. “Do we know who he is?”
Nico pushes a key, and the screen splits. On the right, a photograph from somewhere else. The same man, leaning against a marble bar with a practiced look of boredom on his face.
And I know him immediately, curse myself for not putting it together right off.
“Cristiano Russo,” I murmur.
Nico nods at me. “We pulled a match off a facial recognition ping from an events photographer in Florence,” he says, all business. “The car last night is registered to a shell tied to a Newark-based import outfit we’ve linked to Russo contracts.”
“‘We’ve linked,’” I echo. “Cute way to say ‘it’s theirs.’”
“It’s theirs,” Antonio confirms.
“And still,” I say, because I can feel the suspicion coming off them like heat off a vent, “you’re about to say something that will make me want to shoot the television. Or you.”
Antonio’s eyes cut to mine. “We’re not sure she was taken, exactly.”
I turn toward him slowly. “What does that mean?” I ask slow and deliberate.
“It means,” Nico says, heeding my warning to be careful, “she wasn’t exactly fighting him off.”
“She got into the car,” Antonio adds.
“That doesn’t mean anything.” The snarl is out before I can finesse it. “They could have been threatening her. They could have threatened her family. There could have been a gun—”
“We thought that,” Nico says quickly, palms up like he’s trying to slow me. “That was our first read. Until we got more.”
“What more?”
Antonio taps another key. A different set of stills pop up. A restaurant interior, blurred patrons, tables close enough to have a friendly word with a neighbor. A familiar restaurant.
There she is. Bianca. Hair up. Chef whites. A silver bowl at her hip, her hand poised to finish a plate tableside. Sitting at the table are two more familiar faces.
Russos.
More photos blur by
“We pulled security from Luce di Bologna, where she worked in Florence,” Nico says. “These are from various nights, different weeks. Not always together, but often. The men are Russo. They ate there. They tipped heavily. Everyone in the room would have known them. So would she.”
I feel the first notch of something ugly in my stomach. “Are you telling me,” I say slowly, “that you think she knows the Russos?”
“Knows is the word,” Roberto says from the table, voice infuriatingly even. “Maybe more.”
My eyes cut to him. “Be specific.”
“Maybe she’s working with them.” He doesn’t blink. He never blinks. “Maybe they sent her to get close. Collect information. Put eyes on you, us.”
“No,” I say, before the thought can settle in everyone’s minds. Though I can see it already has. “No.”
“Why not?” he asks, and there’s no malice in the question, which makes me want to knock the chair out from under him more. “Because you don’t want it to be true?”
“Because it isn’t.” The words come out harder than I intend. “I met her because of her mother. The debt is real.”
“How do you know that wasn’t a setup, too?
” Roberto’s voice softens in a way that feels like mercy and a knife.
“All those years Sabina ran Regalia, then suddenly the restaurant needs an infusion of cash? Suddenly, Bianca is home and conveniently talented and conveniently attractive, and every thread leads back to you?”
“It wasn’t sudden,” I nearly growl. “Her grandmother died. She came for the funeral.”
“Her mother ran it for years,” Antonio says. “So why would Sabina pass it on to Bianca? Unless it was part of the setup. A legitimate excuse for her to get involved.”
I feel Luca’s glance. I refuse to meet it.
“Her mother isn’t that good of a liar,” I say, and I mean it. Francesca’s tells are small as beads, but they’re there, and they’ve never been there when we talked about the numbers. “She didn’t have to invent panic. She already had it.”
“Maybe the debt is real,” Vito says from the corner, finally chiming in. “Maybe the Russos saw an opportunity and took it. Or maybe they helped make the debt.”
I stare at the still on the screen until it blurs. Bianca in white, head down, finishing a plate. The men at the table connected to Russo. Leo Russo’s line in our lives runs back farther and wider than any of us thought.
“Say what you’re thinking,” Luca says.
“I’m thinking,” I say, slowly, “that if they wanted to watch me, there are easier ways than putting a beautiful woman who can cook in my path and hoping I look.”
“But you did,” Roberto says. “And now she’s working in your home.”
“My suggestion,” I snap out. “She didn’t offer that. I did.”
“They lucked out,” Luca says, like it’s a done deal. “Got more than they aimed for.”
“Not possible.” I refuse to believe it. “Why pull her out now? Why leave a trail obvious enough for us to follow? She’s more involved in my life than she was before Italy. If they wanted her in my life, our lives, they would have left her there.”
“She broke a rule,” Nico suggests. “Maybe they never intended for her to get involved with you, so they pulled her out.”
“That doesn’t make sense either,” Antonio says. “The Russos don’t fight fair. If they sent Bianca in, it would be for that purpose. They wouldn’t have qualms about her getting too close to him. That’s what they would aim for.”
The breath leaves me, but no one notices while they throw ideas around about my life.
No. Bianca wouldn’t do that. Everything that happened between us in Italy wasn’t planned. Couldn’t be. The Sangiovese, the lamb, that first night. And all the nights after.
She couldn’t be so cold.
“Giovanni.” It’s Nico now. He’s stepped away from the others, talking to me in a low, comforting voice. “We’re not saying it for certain. We can’t prove a thing yet. We’re only showing you what we have because you need to know it all.”
He’s right. I need to know it all.
“Where do we find her?” I interrupt, quieting their theories. “Where would Leo Russo take her?”
“We don’t have that information yet,” Antonio says.
“Cristiano,” I say, forcing the focus back to the now. “Where is he?”
“Newark. Bayonne. Jersey City,” Nico says, counting options on his fingers. “He bounces. He likes the dockside restaurants that pretend they’re in Naples. He thinks it’s funny.”
“I bet I can make him laugh,” I say.
“Not you,” Luca says.
I turn my narrowed eyes at him, but before I can speak, he continues.
“I’m not shutting you out, Gio,” he says. “But we need him in one piece. If you break his face, he can’t answer questions.”
“So now I have less control than Vito?” I snap out.
“Hey,” Vito says, nearly offended. Then he shrugs. “I guess I earned that.”
“Vito finds him, gets answers,” Antonio says. “Then we move in. Get your answers.”
“What if you don’t like the answers?” Roberto says quietly. “Can you live with being wrong about this?”
“I’m not,” I say. “I can live with many things. Not that.”
A thick silence falls on the room.
Luca drags the chair back with a rough sound and sits, elbows on the wood, hands laced like prayer. “We carry both truths,” he says. “Until one falls off.”
“I don’t carry that second one,” I say.
“You don’t have a choice,” he returns.
Antonio’s phone rings. A few unintelligible words on the other end, then he hangs up. “We found Cristiano.”
Luca doesn’t bother to look at Vito. “Go,” he says only.
Vito smirks and walks out.
I look at the still of Bianca on the screen again. The camera loves her even when it doesn’t want to. She doesn’t pose. She just is.
That’s the part none of them have seen because none of them were in my kitchen when she let go, showed me herself. That’s the part they would use against me if they could.
“Whatever the reasons are,” I say, voice flat, “I’m going to find her and get the truth.”
No one speaks.
“No matter what.”