Chapter 2 #3
My cousin follows my glance to the bedroom and grins.
“Guess you’re anxious.” He pats my back, and I smile.
Enzo is my most trusted man, more than a soldier and my cousin.
More importantly, though, he is my childhood friend.
We grew up together. After what happened with my mother, I spent as much time at my uncle’s house as I did my own.
Although Enzo’s always been good about respecting our positions.
He may be my cousin, but he works for me, ultimately.
“I’ll make a sandwich and head out,” he says.
Enzo has a house deeper in the woods of the property, a smaller chapel he converted into his home himself.
I loosen my tie and undo the top buttons of my shirt, our footsteps echoing off the walls as we cross the massive space, Enzo to the kitchen and me toward my bedroom which was once the Baptistry.
Six imposing stone pillars support the massive structure, disappearing into the vaulted ceilings which are three stories high.
Murals paint mesmerizing scenes over our heads and along the walls, most violent, many divine.
I find I can study them all day and never see enough.
There’s always some nuance to be discovered.
Although the work on the ceilings is complete, the murals in some of the devotional chapels are still in the process of being restored.
Time did its damage, of course, but the decay makes it somehow more beautiful.
The pews have been removed, replaced by comfortable furnishings, living and dining areas on one side, a more casual and slightly more private spaces to relax set in the most beautiful of several smaller chapels off the main room.
I kept the original gates leading into each of them, although all stand open.
Fires burn all day long throughout the winter in the two large wood-burning fireplaces I had built while preserving as much marble as I could.
The sanctuary at the very front of the house is now a generous kitchen with the best equipment, the altar itself serving as one of two dining tables with chairs custom made to accommodate for its height and to befit it’s beauty.
The only rooms I’ve closed off in here are the space I use for my office and the two larger chapels converted into bedrooms. Enzo lived in one while he built his house. After he moved out, I passed it on to Jet. But that was when things were different between us. He rarely uses it anymore.
The scent of incense is stronger as I walk past the thurible, and I breathe it in on my way to the corridors that will lead to my private rooms. There are two doors here, one to my bedroom and the second to the smaller bedroom that adjoins mine.
I pause outside her door to listen, hearing some sound inside, a quiet scraping.
I raise my eyebrows to the man standing just outside her door to ask about it, but he shrugs his shoulders and it’s gone before I even get the chance to ask.
“Anything?” I ask instead.
“No sir. She’s been pretty quiet.”
“Good. Go ahead. I’ll take it from here.”
He nods and walks away. I head to my bedroom and enter, closing the door behind me.
My bedroom, which is circular, is the room that contains the baptismal font.
It’s my favorite space, the place I feel most centered.
Most myself. The entire church is quiet as the dead, but this room has something else to it.
A complete stillness that’s almost impossible to find in the noise of life.
It’s where I come to think.
Tonight, though, I glance at the door that leads to her room. My Little Moth.
Setting my phone on the dresser, I slip off my suit jacket and toss it onto the bed, sling my holster holding the Glock over the back of a chair and pull my tie and shirt off.
I drop those on the bed as well and make my way into the bathroom.
Everything is stone and marble here too, the style of the church preserved as I updated what needed modernizing.
I switch on the glass-walled shower and strip off the last of my clothes as the water heats.
A moment later, I step beneath the flow and close my eyes.
Michael Moretti is probably at the hospital now getting his wrist set.
I hope it fucking hurts. I wonder what Malek Lombardi is up to.
No matter what Jet’s source uncovered, I have a gut feeling about him.
Michael’s too inexperienced and far too stupid to have figured out when that shipment of arms was coming in.
He’s too fucking lazy to bother with a plan that would have taken time and subtlety.
Malek on the other hand is a patient man.
He’d worked at Alaric Moretti’s side for decades.
In the last year or so of Alaric’s life, though, there had been rumors about a falling out.
Although I normally wouldn’t bother with the internal goings on of another family, I make a mental note to look into Malek’s history, to understand him, because I think he masterminded this.
I think he set Michael up to take the fall.
Michael Moretti is a weak, lazy man. He’s not his father and it’s no secret, not within his own family, not outside of it.
He’d want the glory of taking something from me.
Did he really think I wouldn’t find out?
Maybe. Was he set up to take the fall? Probably.
Seeing him today, interacting with him, only solidifies my thinking.
Malek, though, he’s been flying under the radar.
He isn’t in it for the glory, the recognition, at least not yet.
That’s too simple, although all human beings are vain. But what he truly wants is power.
I also know there’s a snitch on my end. No way anyone should have known anything about that shipment. I’m looking into that now, but quietly. I, too, am patient.
Once I’m finished, I switch off the shower and grab a towel to dry off before wrapping it low around my hips and returning to the bedroom.
Bare stone is smooth, but cold against my bare feet, a carpet only placed around the bed.
I make my way to the walk-in closet and pull on a pair of sweatpants and a white V-neck T-shirt.
I push my hair back with my fingers, it’s pretty much uncombable, and check my phone.
No messages. I type out a text to Angelo.
Growing up, he was like a father to me and when I took over the family, I kept him on as my consigliere. I trust him like I trust few people.
I type out a text
Me: Saw dad but he was asleep.
Angelo: Good you got to see him. I’ll go over tomorrow during the day. Visit with him.
Me: Thanks. I’d appreciate that. Probably prefers to see you anyway.
The three little dots on his end start their dance, but disappear for a moment. Then they’re back.
Angelo: That’s the disease, Cassian. You know that.
It’s not wholly the disease, but I let it go. I appreciate my uncle’s thoughtfulness.
Me: You’re right. Let me know how it goes tomorrow.
Angelo: Will do. Night.
I cross the room to the door that adjoins my bedroom with the smaller one and reach up to run my fingers over the frame for the key.
Quietly, I slip it into the lock and turn it.
The door opens without a sound. This room is cooler than mine.
It hasn’t been used in a while and takes a while to heat up.
No one stays over. Vivi did for a few weeks, but that was more than two years ago when Seth disappeared. She was still pregnant then.
I push the thoughts of my brother and his family away and step into the small bedroom with its queen size bed, its neutral furnishings.
But when I see my Little Moth kneeling on the floor by the door, her back to me, I realize what that scraping sound was.
I almost chuckle, but not yet. I watch her for a moment instead.
She’s tiny in this old room with its vaulted ceilings and high arched door. Seeing her like that makes me remember how her brother grabbed her. Makes me realize just how vulnerable she is.
I shake my head to clear the thought, though. She’s not here to be another problem for me to solve. She’s here for reasons I can’t quite explain. Collateral, officially, but unofficially? Perhaps to entertain me while I wait for her brother to return my money? Definitely to keep my bed warm.
And watching her unobserved as she tries her jail break? She’s definitely going to be entertaining.
I grin.
She’s so intent on her work that she doesn’t hear me as I cross the room in my bare feet.
“Shit,” she mutters to herself, and I watch as she sits back on her heels and studies the lock for a moment. A hairpin is sticking out of it. Stuck. Well, what did I expect? A good little victim? She’s the Moretti Mafia princess, after all.
I take the last few steps soundlessly as she struggles to get the jammed pin out of the lock. She must feel me at the last moment because she stiffens. I reach over her and close my hand over hers.
The instant I do, she gasps audibly.
I lean down, inhale the scent of jasmine in her shampoo.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn her head. Doesn’t even try to pull away, not yet. She just stares straight ahead at the hand covering hers and I can imagine the pounding of her heart at being caught.
“Going somewhere, Little Moth?”