Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
RAYNE
The doors of the private elevator slide open with a soft chime, and I step out into the lobby, the ominous shadow of Luca right behind me.
He is, in fact, just as I remembered. A hulking brute of a man, slightly shorter than his oldest brother but still over six feet.
A man who barely speaks but has a surprisingly soothing presence.
The first thing I notice about the place is the smell, or, more accurately, the absence of one.
It’s not unpleasant exactly, simply sterile.
There are no candles or fresh flowers, no lingering trace of home-cooked food, or life.
And in that regard, it’s as far from my studio apartment in San Francisco as it can be.
Of course, it’s vastly different in so many other ways too.
Mine the square footage of a Winnebago, and this a football field.
Luca urges me to walk ahead, through a pair of white double doors, and now the living room opens in front of me like something from a fancy magazine.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, all that glittering expensive real estate stretched out beyond it.
The furniture is the kind you’d see in a magazine spread too—low leather sofas and plump cushions, a slab of black and gold marble masquerading as a coffee table, some abstract art hanging on one wall that probably cost more than my apartment.
Everything is cream and black. Tasteful, but cold.
There’s not a single photograph in here.
The books on the coffee table are those arty kinds, none of their spines cracked.
There’s nothing in this room that that says a person actually lives here.
There’s a camera tucked into the moulding near the door, and another by the window.
Of course, the place isn’t a home, it’s a fortress.
I could already tell that from the private garage and then the elevator that all needed access codes, not to mention the reinforced elevator doors.
“This way,” Luca says, his voice rough the way that a voice can get when it’s barely used.
He points toward a door on the left and I make my way through it, then through a kitchen that looks like it’s never been cooked in, all polished chrome and white wood on marble.
There are two further rooms leading off it, and Luca directs me toward one of them.
I open the door and step inside, half-expecting more of the same cold showroom perfection, but find something else entirely.
Now this is more like it. The light is warmer and more welcoming, coming from a couple of lamps rather than the cold overhead spotlighting that makes everywhere else feel too stark.
One wall is simply lined floor to ceiling with books.
There’s a worn sofa on the opposite wall, the leather creased from use, and armchairs.
Soft, inviting armchairs, one with a blanket thrown over the arm.
There’s a record player too, and a stack of vinyl leaning against it.
I already know without looking the stack is packed with Bob Dylan and Van Morrison.
This part of the apartment is both welcoming and unsettling, feeling like the space where Enzo’s real self might live.
I wonder how much time he spends in here compared to the rest of the house.
As prisons go, it’s not all that bad. I go to the window and stare out across the skyline and the glittering lights of the Strip in the distance.
View’s pretty damn good too. It’s not San Francisco though.
Not my home. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I was there right now.
Wishing I’d never come back to Vegas at all.
It’s not that I’m scared of being here. If Enzo wanted to kill me, he would have done it long before now.
But I’m pissed at the inconvenience of being torn from my life.
Indignant that my arrogant, conceited asshole of an ex-fiancé thinks he needs to bring me here at all.
Luca showed me to the nearest bathroom, which I gratefully used to clean up a little, then ushered me back to the den and told me to sit and stay, like I’m a dog.
Then he offered me some food and water, also like a dog.
I opted for some sparkling water in a sealed bottle—a girl can’t be too careful, especially with a Medici.
And now I’m waiting for Enzo’s return, my stomach twisted in knots and my palms clammy.
This feels all too familiar, and I hate it.
At least his father’s not here this time, looming over me, telling me what a dirty little whore I am.
I don’t know how long I wait, how many books I pick up and then put back down, or how many times I switch on the TV before switching it off again moments later, before Enzo finally deigns to grace me with his presence.
He walks into the room, the sound of multiple footsteps behind him.
His brothers no doubt. There’s only one Medici brother I have any interest in seeing, and I can guarantee he won’t be any part of whatever shitshow is about to go down. Pity.
Sure enough, Rafael, Luca, and Micah all trail in behind him and they all take a seat, thankfully as far away from me as possible.
“Are you going to tell us what the hell is going on, Enzo?” Micah asks, his calm tone belying the frustration in his words. He always was a cool customer.
Enzo nods.
“Wait, right now? You’re gonna let her sit in on this?” Rafael asks, incredulous.
“For now. There’s nothing I’m about to tell you that she doesn’t already know,” Enzo says, eyeing me with suspicion and a healthy dose of hatred.
He then gives them a brief rundown of what happened at the Bertellis’ club a few hours ago, culminating in him shooting Vinny Falcone and kidnapping me—although he claims to have saved me.
Asshole! Doesn’t matter that he’s technically correct, however, if he hadn’t been there wiping out the Bertellis, then I wouldn’t have needed saving.
“What gun did you shoot him with?” Micah asks.
“The Ruger. I left it behind. Wiped my prints and made sure Joseph’s were on it instead.”
Smart boy, I think but absolutely do not say.
Micah nods, like he agrees with my unspoken assessment. Then he turns his attention to me. “So, I suppose the only missing piece of the puzzle is what the fuck you were doing there.”
I consider giving them the whole truth, if only to make this nightmare end faster.
But the truth is a live wire, and I don’t know who else has already touched it.
Someone had that recording before the Bertellis got their hands on it.
Someone with access to Enzo’s bedroom and who was able to walk inside, hide a camera, and walk out again without being questioned.
And why now? Why did it surface six years later, almost immediately after their father died?
What if Giovanni was part of it? What if one of his sons knew?
What if every answer I’ve spent six years searching for is sitting in this room, staring back at me?
I can’t know who knows what. I can’t know who helped bury me.
And experience has taught me one thing with brutal clarity: when it comes to his father and his brothers, Enzo will always believe them over me. Always.
So without the video, I have nothing but my word. And in the Medici world, my word has never been worth a damn.
Self-preservation makes me opt for the vaguest answer I can. “He had something that belongs to me. I went there to get it from him.”
“And what exactly is that something?” Micah asks coolly.
My skin bristles all over, but I maintain my composure. “Something personal.”
I’m not looking at Enzo; I refuse to. But I hear his low growling snarl, feel the impact of my words on him in the swift shift in tension.
The room, already charged with it, now crackles, like the sizzle in the air immediately preceding a lightning strike.
But fuck him. I’m not curating myself to make him feel better about being a possessive, judgmental asshole.
“Going to need a little more than that, Rayne,” Micah says, tone dripping with ice.
“Then you can go to hell, Micah, because I am not fucking telling you what it was. It was personal. That means it has fuck all to do with you or your brothers. And you can keep me locked in this room for eternity, but I still won’t tell you.”
Micah throws a quick glance at Enzo, who gives a single shake of his head. “So did you get it? This personal item of yours?” Enzo asks, his voice all fire in comparison to his brother—filled with venom.
“No.” Thanks to you killing all of them before I could, jackass!
I don’t add the second part, because what would be the point?
Enzo would only hear accusation and twist it into proof of whatever crime he’s already decided I committed.
But him showing up today is too perfectly timed to be coincidence.
Carmine must have known the Bertellis had that recording—or at least suspected it.
So why send Enzo to wipe them out before I could get my hands on it?
Because whatever was on that video threatened him somehow. Evil son of a bitch.
I school my face to neutral, swallowing down the panic clawing up my throat. “And I don’t know where it is either.”
Micah takes a seat, eyeing me coldly. “Perhaps we can help each other, Rayne.”
Enzo growls, but I ignore him and focus on the only Medici who appears to make decisions using his brain rather than his gut. He was always the coolheaded logical one, although some might call him devoid of emotion. “Help each other how?”
“Tell us what you were there to collect from the Bertellis, and perhaps we can find it for you.”
“We can’t risk going back there,” Luca warns.
Rafael hums his agreement. “Cops will be swarming the place. Not to mention Carmine could have someone watching.”