Chapter Twenty-Six Raffa
Chapter Twenty-Six
Raffa
It was my worst fear.
The reason I had descended into hell and taken up the dark crown of my father.
My family meant everything to me, my heart beating outside my chest.
And now they were in jeopardy from the very man I had considered a part of my family since I was a boy.
Everyone was on lockdown. The capos and soldiers at the party were to remain there under Burette’s watch until I called in to say we had arrived at the villa safely.
Their phones had been confiscated before they had entered the cemetery—a matter of protocol—and I did not want to risk anyone calling out to Leo to warn him of our arrival or our knowledge that he was a che schifoso voltafaccia, a filthy fucking traitor.
I simply could not believe it even as I sped toward Villa Romano with Guinevere beside me, the nightscape a streaky blur as I raced home through the Tuscan hills, praying to God or whoever might listen to an immoral man like me to keep them safe from harm.
Leo had been my best friend since the cradle.
I had taken my first steps with him, shared his first day of school and last, laughed when he got drunk for the first time on Aldo’s sambuca and threw up in the vines outside the kitchen terrace, and stood shoulder to shoulder with him when my father died.
What could I have done to deserve such faithlessness from a man I had believed was my steadfast friend? No, more than friend—brother.
Family, but chosen.
And somehow that was worse.
That my judgment was clearly so poor I had not seen the sheep through the wolf’s clothing.
The moment Guinevere had accused him, my thoughts had fallen like dominos toward the inevitable conclusion.
Leo was my liaison in the northeast with the Venetians. It had made sense, when I came to power, to keep him there because he and Donatella were distantly related. The di Contes were a prestigious family line in the region all the way back to Venetian aristocracy.
He was, as Guinevere had guessed, a crucial part of the Romano Group, seeking to shift his power back into the company the way my father had once done.
“Aldo spoke of adopting him,” I ground out as we took a hairpin turn and Guinevere veered into my shoulder, not complaining, just holding tight to her seat. “Could he have been so bitter about it that he would do this?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted immediately, and it was clear her brilliant mind was puzzling over it too. “Has he always been particularly power hungry?”
I checked the rearview mirror for Carmine, who was driving the Lamborghini behind me with Martina, Renzo, Ludo, and a few other trusted soldati from the party.
“He was always the obedient soldier, never talking back, always eager to help Aldo and Tonio with whatever they needed. He had killed a dozen people by the time I was made to kill my first. But . . . no. He seemed fine with his lot, my best friend, a key part of the organization. He never once complained or asked for more.”
The steering wheel made a horrible sound as my grip tightened painfully around it.
“He is a second son to my mother, a brother to my sisters, uncle to my nephews. Tell me, how could he turn against us? What the fuck could I have done to make him try to kill me and mine? Cazzo!”
“I don’t think you can rationalize this,” Guinevere said softly, placing her hand on my tensed thigh. “He is clearly a psychopath. My—my sister loved him, and he killed her . . . There is no other reason to do something like that but psychopathy.”
“If he has hurt any of them,” I whispered, as if the words might become reality if spoken too loudly. “I will rip the world apart to find him and spend the rest of my life killing him day by day, little by little.”
“Yes,” Guinevere agreed. “You will. But let’s try not to think that way. He has no reason to know that we’ve discovered what he’s done.”
I swallowed thickly, desperately clinging to the feel of her hand on my thigh, the scent of her feminine fragrance in my nose, and her soft presence in the small space with me. Without her anchoring me, I might have crashed the car, fury overloading my system.
“They have to be okay,” she murmured, as if it was a prayer.
I tried to manifest the same thing, but though we should have had surprise on our side, there was a sinking in my gut that told me we were about to meet more of our signature misfortune.
Which was why, when we crested the hill across from the one Villa Romano rested atop, I was not shocked to see smoke billowing from the far side of the house.
“Merda,” I cursed, slamming my foot down on the pedal so we went careening around the first loop in the circular driveway that carved its way up the hill.
“How would he know?” Guinevere demanded.
Either someone at the party had broken through Burette’s watch, or, more likely, something else had given us away.
It did not matter now.
All that I cared about was making sure no one had been hurt.
When we turned the corner toward the olive grove, we hit a wall of flames. The orange-and-gold fire licked at the end of the gravel, consuming the dry olive trees in snapping, voracious bites down the hillside.
“Someone started it up at the side of the house,” Guinevere whispered, peering out the window.
Cazzo.
Behind me, the SUV swerved hard in the gravel and nearly veered off the road, but I deftly maneuvered the Ferrari up the last curve and swung to a stop in the circular drive, leaving the car running as I sprinted into the house.
“Mamma!” I shouted through the smoke curling in from the opened windows and kitchen door. “Carlotta, Stacci!”
“Raffa.” Stacci appeared at the base of the stairs with Nico on her hip and a weeping Mattia holding her hand. “Thank God.”
“What the fuck happened?” I asked as I swung Mattia into my arms and hustled them out the doors.
“The others are at the other side of the house,” she said after coughing roughly. “John was the one to smell the smoke about fifteen minutes ago, but by then the grove was already well lit.”
“Where are the soldati?” I demanded.
“Fighting the fire,” she explained as we rounded the house to see Emiliano comforting a sobbing Maximo, Carlotta cradling Vitale, John and Elizabeth Stone clutching each other, and Mamma with her arm around Lando, who was sporting a vicious burn on his forearm.
“Did you call the firemen?”
In answer, the distant sound of sirens echoed through the valley over the crackling of splintering, overheated wood.
“Where is Zacheo?” Carlotta asked Stacci, standing up with Vitale in her arms. “He should have been in the house.”
“I checked,” our sister said, going pale. “No one was left inside.”
“Where is Leo?” I asked, a shiver ripping like torn Velcro from my spine.
“He was inside when the fire started, but he went out to help Lando and the others keep the fire from the house,” Stacci explained.
“Do you think he has Zacheo?” Carlotta asked, eyes wide and dark, the same color as the soot raining down around us.
“Maybe,” I allowed, taking one of my guns from the holster at my ankle and pressing it into Stacci’s hand. “If he comes back here, shoot him.”
“What?!”
“Do it, Stacci,” I ordered, holding my hands firmly over hers on the weapon. “Trust me. Shoot first and ask questions later.”
“I will look out for them,” John said, coming up to me with a soot-streaked face and a grave expression. There was a gun tucked in his waistband, one he must have been given by a foot soldier.
I did not take it from him. He had killed enough people in his time as a mafioso to have become an expert with it, even if it had been years. I gave him a solemn nod, thanking him for the offer to protect my family.
God knew I would always protect his.
“Will you find Zacheo?” Carlotta begged, her gaze reflecting the smoke curling over the top of the house. “Please, Raffa.”
“Of course I will,” I promised, turning to leave as Renzo, Carmine, and Martina joined us. “Martina, stay with them. Carm, Zo, help me find Leo and Zacheo.”
I sprinted around the house to the flaming olive grove, where some of my men had laid sandbags to stop the progress of the fire and were currently aiming two garden hoses at the burning edge of the trees.
“Where is Leo?” I asked them, already moving toward the fire.
How had he lit the fire if he was inside when the family noticed it? Had he set a device to go off to give himself an alibi? Was he using the cover of flame to get away undetected?
“He went in to find Zacheo,” Michele shouted over the loud roar. “So did she.”
She.
Panic tore into me with brutal, blunt-edged teeth.
“She?” I echoed, looking around for Guinevere.
“Your American,” he said, confirming my worst fears. “She heard Aio barking in another direction and ran into the fire before we could stop her.”
I stormed toward him, gathering his shirt in my fist to heave him to his toes so I could snarl in his face. “And you did not think to go after her to make sure she—they—were safe?”
“Leo told us to keep the fire back,” he explained, but he had lost all color as he stared into the ferocity of my fury.
“Hope she is unharmed, or I will make sure you regret that decision for the rest of your life,” I snapped, dropping my hold to study the olive grove. “Ludo, can you get to your drone?”
Without responding, my friend turned and raced for the house, where he kept the machine.
“There are acres of groves, Raffa,” Renzo said quietly. “We have no idea where they could be or how far the flames stretch after we lose sight of them down the hill.”
“Michele, where did Leo and Guinevere go?” I asked the cowed man beside me.
He pointed at two rows, one to the left and one to the far right.
Cazzo.
“We need to get to Leo before he disappears.” Carmine said the words I had been thinking. “If you confront him, he might stand down. I have to believe at least some part of him still thinks of you as his brother.”
“I’ll go after Guinevere,” Renzo promised. “I’ll find her and Zacheo, Raffa. I promise you.”