Chapter 27 Kane
Kane
Luka’s been here for a week. And by here, I mean at Angelo’s house, not his apartment. I keep waiting for Angelo to throw his brother out, but he’s said nothing other than ask him if he needs anything.
Angelo catches me smirking as he taps away on his laptop in his home office.
“Something you want to say?” He scowls at me when my smirk grows.
“Nope,” I reply. Things have gone quiet since the attack on Luka. We’re still no closer to figuring out who was behind it, although, thanks to Milo, I eventually tracked Vasily down.
The weasel claimed he knew nothing, but after some hard questioning, he eventually revealed a guy paid him ten grand to lure Luka into the bar and pop a tab in his drink when he wasn’t looking. It was all his own idea to add ketamine to the joint he rolled.
Luka’s lucky not to have any permanent damage from the cocktail of drugs he ingested.
Vasily’s lucky he’s still breathing.
We still know nothing about the guy behind it all. The phone number he used was a dead end, and although Milo is still looking into it, I’m not holding my breath.
“Any news on Barrington?” I ask. Angelo grinds his teeth.
“No, he’s gone to ground. Kyril says the fallout from our rescue mission was significant.”
“Good.” The people who bought into that fucked-up game deserve hell rained down on them.
“There’s been no news about the guy Chiara killed,” he adds before kicking back in his chair with a frown. “I just wish we knew why Oswald Barrington went to so much trouble to steal my wife. It makes no sense.”
He’s right. We’ve had no dealings with him in the past. None whatsoever.
“Cassian Forsyth put some feelers out, but he’s found nothing interesting.
” Lucian Forsyth was Barrington’s predecessor.
When he died, Barrington moved into the void, but apparently none of the men who worked for Lucian stuck around.
Not surprising, really, given Kyril cleaned house on Cassian’s behalf.
The streets of London ran red with blood for many months after Lucian Forsyth perished in a mysterious fire at his country estate.
“There has to be a link we’re not seeing.”
Angelo nods. “Yeah.” The attacks seem way too personal for a man like Barrington to risk so much by getting involved, which he’s doubtless regretting now.
Angelo’s phone rings. He grimaces, which tells me it’s Lorenzo.
“Father. Something wrong?”
Their conversation is short, and by the time Angelo hangs up, he looks ready to kill someone.
“He wants to see me.”
I nod. “Then let’s get this over with.”
Angelo and I walk up the stone steps to the front door of Lorenzo’s gaudy mansion. Even though I spent much of my late teenage years with Angelo in this house, it never looked or felt like a home.
Priceless paintings hang on the walls, and the floors are polished marble. The furniture is antique, shipped from Italy, and there are no personal touches anywhere. No mass-market paperbacks, candid photos, or quirky vacation souvenirs.
Lorenzo designed the house to reflect his Italian heritage, even though he immigrated to the US as a teenager and rarely goes back to the country of his birth.
There are far too many rooms for one man and a handful of servants. It’s a monument to excess and consumerism. An ostentatious display of wealth.
Outside, gardeners nurture olive trees and a lemon grove, bougainvillea, and grapevines, even though Lorenzo prefers sitting in his study with his cigars and bottles of bourbon.
It’s possible the house was more welcoming when Angelo’s mother was still alive, though somehow, I doubt it.
Lorenzo’s housekeeper welcomes us with a smile and points us toward the garden room, where Lorenzo sits watching his beloved dogs tear a carcass to pieces. I shudder at the memory of his dogs tearing a would-be assassin apart many years ago.
“Boys. So glad you could join me.” Angelo takes a seat opposite his father while I lean against the wall.
“What’s this about? I’m busy.” Angelo is far brusquer than usual, and Lorenzo’s jaw tightens.
He’s not impressed with his son’s attitude.
My face stays blank, but inside, I’m surprised.
It’s unlike Angelo to show his frustration.
The attacks on Chiara and Luka must have gotten to him more than I realized.
Lorenzo relaxes after a minute passes and half-smiles, which makes me tense. I’ve seen that expression before, usually a fraction of a second before he shoots someone in the face at point-blank range. I’m carrying a gun, but I’d prefer not to use it. Not when we’re surrounded by Lorenzo’s men.
“You seem tense, Son. Everything alright?” From the way Lorenzo leans back in his chair, legs spread, looking like a lion surveying his kingdom, he thinks he holds the upper hand here.
“We’re dealing with a few minor issues. Nothing for you to worry about, Father, so feel free to take your whore on another vacation somewhere hot. I hear Dubai is popular with the criminal fraternity these days.”
Lorenzo chuckles. “Francesca is too busy to take a vacation, son. She’s devoted herself to learning the ins and outs of her new role.” He reaches for a glass of bourbon while Angelo scoffs.
“Yes, I heard you’ve been fucking her in the conference room. Really, father? That’s low, even for you.”
I thank my lucky stars I wasn’t there to witness that. The poor staff. They’ll all need eye bleach.
Lorenzo just shrugs. He has no shame. “You should take a leaf out of my book, son. Teach that wife of yours where she belongs. On her knees.” He smirks. “Is she expecting yet?”
“Not yet,” Angelo grits out.
“If she were my wife,” Lorenzo continues, “I’d have traded her in for a new model by now.” We both know Lorenzo is trying to bait him. Instead of biting back, he yawns and makes a point of checking at his watch.
“So is there a point to this conversation? Like I said, I’m busy.”
“The marriage contract is now signed. Your sister will marry Santini in four weeks’ time. He’s making the arrangements. I’ll expect you and your lovely wife to be at Saint Mark’s for eleven o’clock on Saturday the twenty-first.”
Fuck.
We’re running out of time to get Fina out of this marriage. And no, the irony of us wanting to save Fina while doing nothing to prevent Chiara from being forced to marry Angelo is not lost on me.
Angelo calls Fina once we leave his father’s house. She picks up as we hit the freeway. The sun’s low in the sky, marking the end of another beautiful day. In another universe, if I’d taken a regular job, perhaps in construction, I’d be clocking off around now.
Heading home to my wife or hitting a bar for a quick beer with the boys.
If only my father hadn’t drunk himself to death, my life would have been very different. But then I’d never have met Chiara.
Angelo tells Fina to meet us back at the house and then hangs up.
“Maybe I can send her out of the country,” he muses.
I say nothing. We both know that unless Lorenzo drops dead, there’s no way out of this. He might not be running the business full-time anymore, but he still holds plenty of leverage. And if Fina tries to run, he’ll kill her.
“I can talk to Santini.” I’ve met the guy once. He’s no threat.
“The problem is,” Angelo mutters, “Santini has connections to Tim Remington, so if we renege on the deal Dad has made, Remington could cause me more problems. I suspect at least some of the negative stories in the press originate from him, although Fina’s not found any proof yet.”
There’s been a flood of stories over the last few weeks. Nothing too obvious. Just subtle hints and insinuations here and there that the Di Rossis are not quite what they seem.
Fina’s done a good of managing the negative PR by having the stories pulled as well as burying them with more positive news, but this, on top of the FBI shit, is worrying.
It highlights the fact that someone is trying to take Angelo down. Why isn’t clear.
In the old days, disputes usually involved gun battles and bloodshed, but these days, rival organizations are likely to adopt more nefarious means of taking down their competitors.
Thank fuck Fina is on the ball.
Only she’s being sidelined, and soon we’ll be stuck with the lovely Francesca, whose best skill is sucking Lorenzo off.
Happy days.