49. That Was Me
CHAPTER 49
THAT WAS ME
R affaele
The sliver of a moon still sits high in the dark sky as I creep out of the apartment and dart across the courtyard. The thought of leaving Isabella has anxiety tearing at my gut, but I convince myself it’s for the greater good. Plus, Aldo and Alberto are with her, along with the other three guys I have stationed around the outer perimeter.
She’s asleep anyway and since it’s her day off hopefully she’ll stay that way until I return. I’ve thought about it for days, and this is the only way. It was Isabella who flicked the light switch I was too damned blind to notice. After the shooting on the rooftop, I’d been certain it was Papà who had sent the Albanian after me. Enrico Sartori hadn’t even crossed my mind. But then I did a little research and as it turns out, my almost father-in-law has employed Arjan Kola on a few projects over the years.
It makes sense, I suppose. Enrico sees me back in Rome with another woman and he snaps… I understand. I almost sympathize with the old man.
A whirlwind of dismal thoughts fills my mind as I hop on Sal’s Vespa and tear onto the quiet streets. For days, I’ve considered what I would say to Sartori, how I could get him to admit about the shooting and more importantly, how to get him to change his mind about exacting his vengeance.
Or rather, maybe I should just point him in the right direction.
I was a fucking idiot back then covering for my father. I hadn’t done it so much for him, but rather for my brothers. If Enrico knew Papà was the one who slit Laura’s throat, I would have found myself an orphan.
At twenty, lying seemed like the best option. I had taken the full blame for Laura’s death, but I’d lied through my teeth. I told her father I wasn’t there when it happened, that I’d only found her body after the fact. He had no idea that I’d been there in that basement, holding her in her final moments as she gasped for air, watching the light drain from her lively, soulful eyes.
Memories of Laura flit across my subconscious, her smile, her voice, the scent of rose petals that always lingered on her skin. The vivid images are like a punch to the gut, and I’m left gasping for air as I maneuver the empty streets. Tears prick at the corners of my vision but the rush of air from atop the Vespa plucks them away before they can fall.
I’ve buried all thoughts of her for years now. I’d sworn off women, indulging in only one-night stands because I’d vowed never to endure that pain of loss again. But here I am, ten years later and stupidly in love with another woman with the potential of shattering my heart once again.
And worse, I’ve put her life at risk because of me.
I veer off the main road, beneath the dim streetlights to the Parioli district where elegant apartments and expertly manicured parks line the wide avenues. It’s been ten years since I was here last, and still, everything remains just as I remember it.
Releasing the throttle, I slow the Vespa until the familiar palatial building takes shape. The classic Roman facade with climbing ivy is bathed in moonlight, giving the ancient white stone structure an otherworldly glow. A wrought-iron gate lines the perimeter with guards stationed on each corner of the grand estate.
I glance up at one of the large, arched windows where light already peeks through. Enrico had always been an early riser, and I suppose not that much has changed in the past decade. The moment I pull up to the sidewalk and cut the engine, two guards are on me, each with their hands a millimeter from their guns.
They bark at me in Italian, but once I’ve given them my name, the head guy walks off before pressing a finger to the com in his ear. I stand on the sidewalk, my heart like a battering ram against my ribs.
Will Enrico agree to see me?
Am I a fucking idiot to even risk being here right now?
No… I have to do this. For Isabella.
Heavy footfalls spin my head over my shoulder to the approaching guard. His scowl is so deep it looks as if it were permanently engraved into his face. “ Signor Sartori will see you now.” He motions toward the gate and one of the other guards unlocks it, then pushes it open. The sharp keening sound has every hair on my body standing at attention. He pauses at the opening, his dark gaze intent on the bulge in my jacket. “I’ll need your gun, of course.”
“ Certo .” Reaching into the interior pocket, I pull out the Glock and hand it over. He doesn’t say anything about my knife, so I don’t offer it. The small blade is tucked into my pant leg where it permanently resides.
“Follow me.” The guard ticks his head up the marble steps to the entrance.
Another member of the security team opens the front door and as I cross the threshold, the foyer is just as I remember it. The grand entryway boasts high ceilings and there isn’t a speck of dust on the polished marble floors. The center of the hall is adorned with a dramatic staircase leading to the upper floors with intricate wrought-iron railings.
Standing at the top of the landing is Enrico Sartori.
He glares down at me, the silk robe, streaks of silver in his hair and ten years that have passed doing nothing to smooth down his hard edges or menacing demeanor.
“This is quite the surprise, Raffaele. You are the last person I expected to find at my doorstep at this hour of the morning.”
He surprises me with the heavily accented English. The man I knew refused to speak anything but his mother tongue despite being fully versed in multiple languages.
“ Scusi . I’m sorry for showing up without notice, but it’s important.”
“I assume it is.” A sneer curls the corner of his mustache. “I thought you were a smart man, but it appears I was mistaken.” He slowly descends, dragging out each step. Once we’re nearly toe to toe, he glares up at me, the picture of confidence despite the foot of height I have over him. “Before you enter my living room, remove that knife from wherever its hidden.”
It takes all my years of training not to flinch. Apparently, the man hasn’t lost his touch in his old age. “ Certo .” I bend down and pluck the blade from my pant leg, then press it into his awaiting palm.
“You’ll have it back at the end of your visit.”
“Fair enough.”
One of the guards leads the way to the sitting room, while the other follows a step behind me. In the grand living room, yet another sentinel awaits, standing beside the heavy velvet curtains.
Enrico folds down into a high-backed leather chair the color of my favorite scotch. Then his darting eyes lift to mine. “Why have you come today?”
I remain standing because for some damned reason it feels like I’m the accused, here to plead my case in front of a judge. Again, the words seem to allude me despite having gone over my speech a hundred times overnight when I should have been sleeping.
“Raffaele Ferrara, I don’t have time for stalling...”
“I’m not. I only came to ask an important question.”
“Then ask.”
I knot my hands together to keep them from clenching. “As you may be aware, I arrived in Rome about a month ago with a client. She is to remain here only for another month then we will return stateside. Someone sent a shooter to her apartment last week, and I need to know why.”
His silver speckled brow lifts into an arc. “Well, she’s your client. Shouldn’t you have the answer?”
“I caught the shooter, but the name he gave me was a middleman, nothing more than a low-life Albanian who negotiates contracts for hire.” I pause, attempting to tread lightly in spite of the fury lashing at my veins. “You remember Arjan Kola, don’t you?”
The flicker of a smile tugs at the wrinkled edge of his lip. “The name does sound familiar…” His eyes narrow as he regards me. “But as I recall, your father uses the man as well. What makes you think he isn’t responsible for this, too?”
“Too?” I blurt.
“Mmm.” He drums his fingers on the arm rest. “I’ve heard your father is attempting to expand the Ferrara empire into Manhattan. Were you not aware?”
I shake my head as ice rushes my veins. Dio , I remember hearing him talk about that when I was just a kid. It was a fool’s dream…
“In fact, I understand some Russians shot up a popular bar owned by the infamous Kings a few months ago. Perhaps, you’ve heard of it? The Velvet Vault.”
My stomach churns, acid eating away at my insides. No. It couldn’t be…
“The Kings have been making moves in your father’s territory in Rome, Raffa, so it was only natural for him to strike back. You would know if you hadn’t walked out on your family. Such a drastic move… I often wonder what could have precipitated that?”
Ignoring his question, I spit out the venom-laced words on the tip of my tongue. “You’re telling me that it was my father who organized the shooting at The Velvet Vault?”
“That certainly seems like a logical conclusion, doesn’t it?”
My thoughts whirl back in time to all those months ago. The attack had been on the front page of every New York newspaper, print and digital alike. And somehow that night, a mysterious text message had brought me to the very laundromat beside the exclusive club where I met Luca Valentino’s daughter for the first time.
Cazzo , could Papà have coordinated that, too?
“But why?”
“I was never overly fond of you, Raffa, and especially not after you got my Laura pregnant, but you were never a stupid man.” He leans forward, searing me with that dark glare. Even seated the old man is intimidating. “Don’t you think it’s convenient you found yourself with a job as bodyguard to the Kings’ principessa ?”
“No…” I growl. There is no way. No way Papà could have exerted his influence from thousands of miles away like that. I got the job because I earned it. Because I was the best choice. Again, my thoughts spin to the past, to that fortuitous day that I happened to be at the right place at just the right time when those mobsters tried to shoot up Isabella’s car. Cazzo , had my father arranged that too? My head spins, nausea clawing up my throat.
None of this makes sense.
I repeat the words over and over again.
But they do… they make perfect sense. What better way to fuck with your enemy than by penetrating their inner circle? And with a completely unsuspecting fool?
There is only one part that doesn’t add up.
“Then why did Papà try to kill me?”
“Ah, Raffa, that wasn’t your father. That was me.”