Chapter 22 Annetta
ANNETTA
“Wow, Mrs. Lombardi, those look real nice,” Eduardo calls out from the kitchen as I step back to survey my work.
Flower petals and pine needles are scattered around three arrangements in the center of the dining table, each one designed as a mix of rustic elegance with birch twigs, roses, anemone, berries, and pinecones.
I know they’re at least as good as something my sister could do on a lazy Sunday afternoon, but when I wait for a sense of satisfaction to wash over me, there’s nothing.
It’s just a few handfuls of tiny, delicate flowers—existing only to look pretty and give you something to fuss over until they promptly wither and die.
At least they don’t look drunk.
“Thanks, Eduardo,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Also, we’re out of salami, Mrs. Lombardi.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Eduardo.”
He flops onto the couch and pulls out his phone. To the soundtrack of revving motors and giggling women, I snap a picture of the arrangements and send it to Valeria.
As the last pieces of her dad’s dinner celebration fall into place, we’ve met less and less, which suits us both just fine.
I haven’t wanted to chat lately, and the dark circles under Valeria’s eyes are more pronounced every time she comes by to drop off groceries.
Whenever I ask her about it, she yawns, claims she had another late night at work, and swears to me that she wants to keep bringing groceries, because Mom pays her well and she’s saving up for a new car.
In the kitchen, I pull out the chicken I’ve been letting brine all day and pat its pale flesh dry with paper towels before sliding it into a stoneware baking dish.
As I wash my hands with thorough, mechanical movements, I stare out at the flickering city lights cushioned against the night sky, my thoughts drifting to the same place they’ve been going for weeks.
Dom said he was going to make sure Maria and Lucia were getting sent home, but every day, I ask, and every day, he tells me Salvatore hasn’t given him an answer yet.
Every night, he crawls into bed and tells me he won’t break his promise, to give him time.
How long am I supposed to wait?
My old family stole those girls from their homes, and my new one won’t send them back. Maybe I can barely keep myself alive, but here, I have some influence. I can at least try—this, at least, matters.
I’ve just gotten the chicken in the oven and returned to the kitchen table to tidy up before I practice shooting when the elevator door beeps.
“It’s just Valeria,” I say to Eduardo.
But when he sees the newcomer, he tucks his phone away and stands at attention.
“Hi, Eduardo. Can you wait in the foyer for me? I want to have a little chat with Serafina,” a woman’s voice says.
I freeze, trying to place the vaguely familiar voice.
“With all due respect, I was told by the don himself not to leave this penthouse until Dom comes home.”
“The don knows I’m here. Feel free to call him while you wait downstairs.”
It takes me a moment to place the voice, but I’m certain now.
Marisol Luporini. Don Salvatore’s wife.
“I’ll be right next to the elevator in the foyer.”
“Thank you, Eduardo.”
Eduardo disappears into the hallway, and Marisol Luporini walks around the corner, holding an armful of flower bouquets. She’s a little taller than me—even taller with her black heeled boots—with dark hair secured by a black headband and a burgundy wool coat.
I consider hiding upstairs, but before I can act on it, she spots me and smiles.
“Hi there. I saw your delivery girl downstairs and thought I’d save her the trip.
” Marisol’s heels click as she picks her way across my home gun range like it’s the most natural thing in the world and drops the bouquets on my table.
Her gaze ticks over the roses and eucalyptus like she’s searching the fresh leaves for blight, before she looks to me.
“These are quite beautiful. Are you doing all three for Aceto’s celebration? ”
My brain finally kicks back online, and I stand. “Valeria and I will pick just one, Mrs. Luporini. Can I get you something to eat?”
She waves her hand at me to sit. “No. I won’t stay long. Salvatore doesn’t like me to stay out late.”
Instead of resentment, she says it with a certain amount of pride.
My thoughts must be evident on my face, because she laughs as she shrugs off her coat and sits down at the head of the table.
“It won’t surprise you to hear the don is a bit of a control freak.”
I settle back into my seat. Marisol picks up the snips, turns them over for inspection, grins at me, and sets them next to my hand. My pinky twitches.
“So how are you liking married life?” She turns to her bag and rustles through the contents.
“I… Dom is a good husband.”
That’s true, at least. He treats me kindly, listens, and makes time for me.
He’s funny, charming, and an enthusiastic eater in and out of the bedroom.
I know he’s trying so hard to be patient, but the part of me that used to be able to open up is so faded now, like the impression of an image after it’s been passed over with an eraser a thousand times.
“Sounds like you couldn’t be happier,” Marisol says with a snort. She pulls a card-sized speaker out of her bag.
“He’s a great husband,” I correct, before considering that maybe talking to the don’s wife like this isn’t especially wise.
When Aldo used to bring his girlfriends, wives, even his “lady friends”—which was just code for mistress—to my parents’ house for dinner, Mom made sure we always spoke to them with the utmost respect.
“We’re just in a bit of a rough patch, Mrs. Luporini. ”
She switches her speaker on, and it fills the room with the sound of people chatting and clinking silverware against ceramics.
“Salvatore and I had plenty of rough patches ourselves,” she says, without addressing the crowd noises. “I’m sure you’ll come to an agreement soon enough.”
I roll a fallen pine needle back and forth on the table.
“You must be wondering why I’m here.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
She lays her hand over mine, and her skin’s soft and warm. Her nails are perfectly manicured and ruby red. “I was actually hoping you and I could be friends.”
I blink at her a few times. “Friends?”
She nods, her dark eyes wide and childlike. She has a strange sort of fae-like beauty about her that makes me nervous, like she’s going to ask me to dance or try to drown me in a lake.
“You tried sticking up for me, back at the house,” she says. “You thought everyone was going to sell me out to Junior, and you fought for me, anyway. That means more to me than you could know.”
Everyone? She couldn’t be talking about Dom as well.
I stumble over my words to defend him. “Dom only took me out of the house because he said Salvatore would sooner cut off his arm than let harm come to you.”
“Oh.” She looks surprised for a moment, then smiles. “That’s nice to hear. Regardless, you didn’t know that, so thank you.”
“Um. You’re welcome.”
She squeezes my hand and settles hers on her lap. Even her smile gives me the oddest sensation that she’s a cat, and I’m a little bird on her windowsill.
“You know, I think you and I have a lot in common.”
“Like what?”
“We’re both brave women married to dangerous men.”
I snort. Brave is the last word I’d use to describe myself. Scared and pathetic, more likely, with a heavy shot of depressed.
“And we both want the same things. You want to help those poor girls, don’t you?”
The pine needle shoots out from under my fingertip. I swallow. “I want to help get them home.”
“Yeah. I know. Dom’s been bothering Salvatore about them every day.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s pretty annoying, actually.”
Affection for Dom clashes with cold distrust for Marisol.
“He said when Don Salvatore got back from his trip, he’d make sure he’d send the girls home.”
“Yeah, well, he made a promise he couldn’t keep. They said you spoke to the girls, so you already know—they saw Aceto’s face. And, unfortunately”—she draws out the word with distaste—“that’s the only evidence we currently have of Aceto’s involvement, so for now, we need those girls.”
“What about street cameras to Aceto’s warehouse?”
She scoffs. “Everything was cut. And Aceto is being very cautious about whatever he was using to talk with the Chiarellis. Which is great.” She rolls her eyes. “But, there are other ways to nail him.”
She reaches into her bag and, after a few moments of muttering and shuffling around, pulls out a tiny, white smart plug.
She places it on the table between us and taps it with one red nail.
“Do you know what this is?”
I stare at it without comprehension. “A smart plug?”
“That’s not all. It’s also a recording device. You plug this in, and it streams audio wherever you want. Easy.”
I flick my gaze up to Marisol’s innocently smiling face.
Does she have anything like this in our house?
“I have a proposition for you,” Marisol says, like she doesn’t know or care about my suspicion. “If you plug this little device into an outlet in Aceto’s office, I’ll get the girls sent home.”
She watches me expectantly. Hungrily, even. It dawns on me slowly that the doorman never called her up—she let herself in.
Maybe it wasn’t her soft innocence that drew Don Salvatore to her.
“So, you’re not already tracking him?” I ask, if only to buy myself time to process.
“We have plenty of equipment to watch him, but it’s not a perfect science.
He’s still figuring out a way to evade us, and I’ll be honest, I’m getting a bit impatient.
If he’s a rat, he needs to be gotten rid of.
And if he is working with your late husband’s family, that’s something I’d like to know now.
You know the Chiarellis will be visiting Chicago next month? The whole family.”
She watches me as the news settles in.
“Why?” I ask with a breathless voice. In all the time I’d lived with them, they’d only visited Chicago a handful of times, for business.
“They say it’s to meet with your dad to talk about increasing his number of warehouses, but my guess is that it’s to see you and confirm what they already know about your identity.
They’ve been cautious over their phone calls and even in their homes, but no one’s perfect.
Giulia Chiarelli blames you for her son’s death.
She prays for your suffering every night. ”
The image of sweet, kind-faced Giulia praying for my suffering slices through my mind, but not out of surprise. She always told me you had to make your own justice in this world.
“If Aceto’s really working with them, won’t he hurt me if I go to his house?” I ask slowly.
“Doubtful. He needs to protect his own ass, and hurting the wife and daughter of two powerful men doesn’t bode well for him.
Better to let some hitman take the fall.
I won’t lie, though, it’ll still be risky.
” Marisol smiles. “But like most things in life, this is worth the risk. Once Aceto figures out those two sweet girls know his face, he will kill them.”
My stomach drops. I touch the outlet’s cold metal prongs with the tips of my fingers. “But if I put this in his office, you’ll send them home?”
“I will.”
“When?”
She gives me a calculating look. “I’ll make sure it happens the same day.”
I know Maria and Lucia want to see their families. They want to return to the lives that were stolen from them. If we buy them a plane ticket and send them on their way, how much help will that be?
“Can you give them assistance if they need it?” I ask tentatively. “After you get them home?”
Marisol considers this. “I’ll support any decision about them as you see fit. You’ve done charity work, right? I’ll put you in charge of this.”
Yeah, like running a cookie stand. I don’t say it aloud. Being in charge for once sounds nice.
My hand closes around the smooth plastic of the smart plug. “When do I need to do this?”
“That’s up to you,” she says, standing and gathering her things.
“But the sooner you do it, the sooner you’ll be a little safer from the Chiarellis, and the sooner those poor girls are back home.
” She brushes invisible lint from her coat.
“And, just so you know, Dom will be out for the rest of the night. Aceto, too, though his kids are home. That shouldn’t be a problem for you since you’re such good friends with Valeria.
Tonight could be an auspicious night for a visit. ”
She takes one last glance at the flowers on the table. “You really did a beautiful job with the arrangement. Your sister would be proud.”
And then she leaves me completely alone in the house.
For one long moment, I sit there with my eyes squeezed shut. This is a small thing, isn’t it? Visit my friend. Push a smart plug into an outlet.
And if I do it, Maria and Lucia go home.
Marisol could be lying. She probably is, somehow. She might not have the authority to make her offer, or there could be more conditions to this deal, but what else do I have to go on?
Aceto will be out tonight.
I’ve been so bitter lately. I’m impatient with Dom’s promises, betrayed and heartbroken from Serafina’s secrets, and angry at myself for being totally helpless and completely useless.
I roll the outlet in my hand. Maybe I can change one of those things.
It’s hidden in my pocket by the time Eduardo returns to the penthouse.
We eat dinner, and I tell him I’m going to have an early night.
Upstairs, I change into jeans, a comfortable pair of sneakers, and a tight-fitting top. Then I stare at the gun in Dom’s nightstand drawer.
I don’t want to use it.
But I could need it.
And what have I been practicing for, if not for this?
The girls’ faces flash in my mind. They’d need me to take it. I take the weapon and its holster and shove it in the front of my jeans like I’ve seen Dom do. And then I throw a big sweater over that and a coat for good measure.
I glance at my phone. The last message I sent to Dom was about dinner. He responded a moment later.
Dom
Goddamn angel, I’m dying to get home for a taste
Guilt prickles my skin, but it doesn’t stop me from taking Dom’s keys and standing next to the second-floor elevator.
Eduardo has his show playing loudly in the living room downstairs.
Maybe he won’t hear the elevator. I press the call button, waiting for several long seconds with my lungs frozen, straining my ears to pick up any sound.
Guilt burns into my chest. Dom will punish Eduardo if I leave without telling anyone.
I’ll be back before they know. Dom will understand.
The doors open with a soft beep. When I don’t hear any movement downstairs, I step inside and descend.