Chapter 51 – Alessandro
T he metal handcuffs clinked against the table. Because our lawyer wasn’t present, we had to sit in a room with cameras. It was a blatant attempt to catch me talking out of turn with my “friend.”
“Mier says it’s a cut and dry case,” Dante drawled. “They found evidence in Tribiano’s apartment.”
“Yeah, I saw the file. For a Fed, he left quite the paper trail showing my death was premeditated.” I ran my tongue over my teeth. “You’ll be out in a few days.”
The law wasn’t going to catch us plotting in here as a last-ditch attempt to convict Dante or me.
“How are you doing?” Dante tipped his head to the side.
“Me?” I snorted. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re the one behind bars.” I spun a finger through the air, gesturing to the setting.
“And you’re the one whose wife left.”
The ache in my chest pulsed. “I’m getting her back.”
“Of course you are.” Dante leaned forward, bracing his manacled hands against the table as far as the restraints would allow. “The question is how ?”
If it was any other woman, I would shower her with expensive gifts, promise her whatever boon her heart desired, and make her see life with me was far better than the alternative. But not Penelope. No, I had to prove myself worthy with her.
“Um, any advice?” I watched Dante from under my brow and braced myself for his teasing.
“What do you know about her?” Dante drummed his fingers against the table.
I watched his long, thick fingers tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap. If he wanted, he could escape. Those handcuffs were nothing to a man as cunning as him. It would be all too easy for him to kill the guards and walk out of here and disappear to a country without extradition. He was playing nice because the stakes were set in such a way as to make the case that he was a bodyguard, doing his duty to a businessman who’d been maliciously attacked. I envied him. The knowledge to free himself and disappear was a rare gift, one I would dearly love to possess. I might be the boss of a criminal empire, but I lacked the assassin-level knowledge of my friend.
“Alessandro.” My name cut through the escape plan. “Quit stalling and answer the damn question.”
I sighed. “I don’t know her. Not well.”
“Again, bullshit.” Dante shook his head. “You know everything you need to win her back. You just have to talk it out. And that’s what you’re clearly avoiding.”
I shifted in my seat. The metal chair was bolted to the floor, rigid and uncomfortable.
“What’s her favorite flower?” Dante pressed.
The light on the camera above blinked red. The one-way mirror no doubt had Feds watching from behind it. What did they think of me? A man who was unable to answer even the simplest of questions.
“Find out,” Dante advised. “And don’t just send them to her. Make them a statement.”
“Flowers that make a statement.” Check.
“What else?”
I shrugged.
“You’re not even trying.” Dante’s voice cracked through the room, a low and volatile whip.
“That’s what you’re here for,” I drawled.
My right hand looked as though he would gladly slit my throat to end the conversation.
“Please.” I leaned forward. “Help a dumbass out, will you?”
Dante sighed and shook his head. “You really are a dumbass.”
“And I’m going to do better this time.”
“I can see that. Okay, so, I bet she loves food,” Dante mused, his eyes flicking to the camera with subtle defiance. “Not just any food—something specific. Everyone has a weakness. Even our sunny queen Penelope.”
I leaned back, the chair creaking in protest. “Tiramisu. She devours it like it’s her last meal.” The corner of my mouth twitched at the memory of Penelope licking mascarpone from her fork, her eyes half-closed in pleasure. “But that’s too simple.”
Dante’s laugh was sharp. “Nothing is too simple when you’re groveling. “And make no mistake, Alessandro—you are groveling.”
The truth stung, but I couldn’t deny it. I, Alessandro Mancini, who had men killed for looking at me wrong, was planning to grovel for a woman. Not just any woman. My wife. The one who took life away when she left.
“Okay, I’ll make sure there is tiramisu in the house at all times—”
“No!” Dante laughed again. “No, you’re going to make it for her. Randomly. Or better yet, since she enjoys cooking, make it with her some of the time.”
“I have to convince her to come back home first,” I grumbled. “I don’t think tiramisu will survive the mail to North Dakota.”
“Baby steps, my friend.” Dante’s mouth curved into a knowing smile. “What does she crave? Not just physically, though I’m sure you’ve got that covered. What does she hunger for deep down?”
I rubbed my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. Penelope wasn’t like the other women who’d flitted through our world. She was complex, a labyrinth I’d barely begun to navigate before everything imploded.
“Independence,” I finally said. “She hates feeling controlled.”
“Bingo.” Dante’s eyes gleamed. “And what did you do, Alessandro? You caged her. Made decisions without her. Protected her so thoroughly she couldn’t breathe.”
The truth stung worse than any bullet I’d ever taken. “I was keeping her safe.”
“You were keeping her prisoner, even if the bars were made of gold.” Dante leaned back, chains rattling. “Making her a part of your company—” we both knew what he really meant “—was a good first step. Send her some work. Let her know it’s not just an empty title.”
“I was planning on her helping me with some jobs with the clubs,” I countered. “But there’s not a lot she can do.”
Dante stabbed a finger at me. “That kind of thinking is what led to your fuck-up. Drop all your preconceived notions of what she can and can’t do and start involving her. Together, you two will figure out her limits.”
There was a buzz at the door. The surly officer of the law walked in with an authoritative swagger.
“Time’s up, Mancini,” he snapped.
“I wasn’t done.” I gave him a cold stare.
But this was his playing field. The Fed shook his head. “As entertaining as your marital problems are to the guys, we’re done listening to your tale of woe.”
I rose and gave my enforcer a long look. “Thank you, my friend.”
“I’ll see you soon.” Dante smiled.
“I’m counting on it.” I walked out, letting the suit escort me to the checkpoint.
There was work piled up at the office, calling my name, yet I didn’t find myself driving toward the bakery. Instead, I sped home, my mind torn between obligations and desires. Grabbing a legal pad and pen, I drifted to the sitting room where Penelope often immersed herself in her books and journal, wondering if I should be there or elsewhere. But it felt right to concoct a battle plan in the space of the object of my obsession. This was where she spent her days, that journal always within reach.
The journal that she didn’t take back with her to North Dakota.
My pulse quickened, and a flutter of excitement stirred in my chest.
Turning sharply on my heel, I wandered to our room and began to search. Two hours later, frustrated and defeated, I returned to the sitting room. I swore her scent lingered in the space, haunting me with her absence. Sitting on the sofa, I bent and inhaled. Yes, the faintest whiff of jasmine lingered on the seat. I started to scribble on the lined sheet of paper, looking up every so often to regroup my thoughts.
When one page was filled with ideas, I flipped to the next. But the bookshelf caught my eye.
Launching to my feet, I padded over to the furniture. Sure enough, hidden in the decorative tomes was a leather-bound book that didn’t belong. I snatched it, cradling it to my chest.
This was my golden ticket, the insight into the woman who I was going to move heaven and earth to bring back.
Slowly, I opened it, hands trembling with eagerness. I traced the scrawled lines on the first page with the tip of my finger. The letters were fluid, some smooth and evenly paced, others scrunched and jagged. Without reading the words, I could tell how she’d felt when writing different passages.
I spent the rest of the night pursuing the contents and jotting down my own brain dump of ideas. This was going to work—it had to. I would settle for nothing less.