Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Valentino
She's crying.
Not loudly. She's trying to hold it in.
My jaw locks. My hand tightens around the rosary until one of the beads digs into the pad of my thumb.
I want to break the door down. I want to sit beside the tub in silence, just so she isn't alone. Just so she knows someone is waiting on the other side.
I don't move.
I don't have the right.
She locked the door. She wanted to be alone in there, and the only thing I can give her right now is the thing she asked for.
So I stand in the hall, listen to her cry, and do nothing.
My phone buzzes.
Bruno.
I walk to the end of the hall first, far enough that she won't hear my voice, then answer.
"Tell me."
"Enzo doesn't know."
"Say that again."
"Enzo Basile does not know it was us. Not yet. He knows his son is dead, but he hasn't connected it to the Sartoris. He hasn't connected it to you."
I press my thumb against the spot where the bead dug in. The sharp pain helps me focus.
"That's not possible."
"That's what I'm telling you. It isn't possible. And yet. He hasn't made the call. Palermo is quiet. Our people inside his operation say he's raging. Tearing apart the palazzo. Screaming at everyone. He knows someone took his son from him, but he hasn't figured out who."
"The phone."
"That's the thing." Bruno's voice drops. "They don't have her phone."
I close my eyes.
"If they had her phone," Bruno says, "this conversation would be different."
I look back at the bathroom door. The water is still running. I can't hear her crying anymore.
Maybe she's stopped.
Maybe she's under the water.
"Vittoria's tracking the phone," Bruno says. "Every contact. Every tool we've got. The provider, the cloud, the last GPS ping before it went dark. She'll find it. If it's on, she'll find it fast. If it's off, we wait for somebody to turn it back on."
"And if somebody in that palazzo has it stuffed in a drawer?"
"Then it's in a drawer and nobody's looked through it yet. That's good for us. Right now, that's the only good thing."
I breathe out.
"What do I do?"
"You stay," Bruno says. "Right there. That house. Nobody leaves. Nobody makes a call we didn't approve. Lights off on the road side. Nothing tied to our networks. No deliveries. No unnecessary movement."
"How long?"
"Until I tell you."
"Bruno."
"Until I tell you, Valentino. I know you want a timeline. I don't have one. We need to know where that phone is. We need to know what Enzo does next. We need Vittoria to finish what she's doing."
A pause.
"You stay put. You keep Amanda safe. That's your job today."
"Understood."
He's quiet for a second.
"How is she?"
I look at the bathroom door.
"She's in the bath."
"That's not what I asked."
I don't answer.
"Valentino."
"She's crying," I say. "She probably thinks I can't hear her."
Bruno is quiet for a long moment.
"Vittoria says she does that," he says finally. "Makes herself smaller when she's hurting. So nobody has to carry any of it."
"Yeah."
"Don't let her do that."
"She locked the door."
"I don't mean break the door. I mean when she comes out. Don't leave her alone with it."
I look at the door again.
"Understood."
"Good. Sit by the door. Don't go in. Don't knock. Just be where she can find you if she needs to."
"I know."
"I know you know. I'm telling you anyway because I have a wife, and I've learned. The line goes dead.
I keep the phone in my hand for another second, looking at the bathroom door.
She turned the water off.
Bruno is right. I know he's right. Standing here with nothing to do makes me feel useless, and useless is a dangerous thing for me to be.
She needs clothes.
The clothes are at the bottom of a bag. A gray hoodie. A pair of black shorts I train in.
I carry them back down the hall and set them on the floor outside the bathroom, neatly folded, where she'll see them the second she opens the door. Then I step back so she won't hear me lingering.
For a moment, I can't tell if she's moving around in there or standing perfectly still. I hope she's resting. I hope she's letting the warm water do some of the work, because that's one thing I can't do for her, no matter how badly I want to.
I go to find Elio.
He's on the couch in the living room with the lamp off, elbows on his knees, staring at the dark window like it might blink first. He hears me come in. He's trained, when he bothers to use it.
He turns his head. "How long," he says, "you and Amanda?"
The question lands like a spark on dry tinder.
I've been holding myself together since last night. Since I opened that door and found her hurt, terrified, and surrounded by men who thought it was funny. Every hour since then has been an exercise in restraint.
I've kept my temper buried because she needed calm more than she needed vengeance.
I've been careful.
I've been a saint.
Elio just volunteered to be the outlet for all of it.
I cross the room before he finishes blinking. I grab him in the front of his shirt and haul him off the couch like he weighs nothing. His face is six inches from mine, and I can smell the cigarette he must have snuck on the back step.
"You don't say her name," I tell him, my voice low enough to scrape. "Not again. Not in this house. Not to me. You lost the right to ask about her the second you started treating this like gossip instead of a situation that could've gotten her killed."
His hands come up. Not to fight. To hold my wrist. He's not stupid.
"You don't ask me questions," I keep going.
"Not about her. Not about what I am. You answer when I speak.
You watch the road. You keep your mouth shut.
The only reason you're still breathing is because I need a second pair of hands until Bruno moves us.
You're useful for another week. Don't make me reconsider. "
I watch him and wait to see which choice he's stupid enough to make.
He doesn't drop his eyes. I'll give him that much.
"If you're going to kill me, kill me," Elio says. His voice is steady, which surprises me. Which I almost respect. "But don't pretend this is about me asking the wrong question."
His fingers tighten on my wrist.
"You know what I'm asking. How long has she mattered to you?”
Amanda
Valentino has Elio by the collar before I've fully turned the corner, his other hand pulled back.
"Cazzo," he snarls, low and ugly, the word scraping out of him.
"Stop."
My voice cracks on the single syllable, but his fist freezes an inch from Elio's face.
"What is happening?" I ask.
Neither of them answers. Of course. God forbid anyone in this house say an actual sentence to me that contains information.
I cross the room on shaky legs and wedge myself between them, which is, in hindsight, deeply stupid with a man whose fist is still cocked.
Valentino's chest is heaving. Elio isn't fighting the grip on his collar. He just looks at me, calm in that flat, trained way of his, like he's already made peace with whatever comes next.
"Somebody talk," I say. "One of you. Anybody. I'll take charades."
Neither of them says a word.
The radiator ticks in the corner.
I turn on Valentino. He's the one with the fist, so he's the one who gets it.
"What did he do?" My eyes go to those ruined knuckles, the scabs split open fresh. "What could he possibly have done that's worth bleeding for again?"
Valentino doesn't look at me. His jaw works, swallowing down whatever he wants to say. His eyes stay locked on Elio.
"Go to the kitchen," he says. "Wait for me there."
"Excuse me?"
"Kitchen." Still not looking at me. "I'll come to you."
Part of me wants to dig in my heels and refuse. To demand answers. To remind him that whatever is happening, it involves me too.
But that part of me is exhausted.
That version is so tired she could lie down right here on the ugly rug and sleep for a year.
So I don't fight. I let the argument go limp inside me and step back.
"Fine." I point at the inch of air between Valentino's fist and Elio's jaw. "But you don't touch him. I mean it. Whatever this is, you don't hit him."
His eyes finally come to me. Dark, unreadable, taking inventory of my whole face like he's checking for damage.
"Promise me," I say.
A muscle flickers near his temple. He doesn't promise anything. He just lowers his hand, slow, and lets go of Elio's collar like he's setting down something he might still decide to break later.
It's not a yes. But it's not a fist either. I take it.
I leave them standing there and head for the kitchen. The floor still feels a little unsteady under me, but at least it's holding.
The kitchen is small and yellow and lit by a single bulb. There's a chipped enamel sink and a table with two chairs that don't match. I find a glass on the drying rack, cloudy with hard-water spots, and fill it from the tap because my mouth still tastes like a penny.
I drink half of it standing at the sink, both hands wrapped around the glass.
A few moments later, I hear footsteps in the hall. When I glance up, Valentino is standing in the doorway, filling it without seeming to try.
"You didn't hit him," I say. It's not quite a question.
"No."
I set the glass down on the counter, the soft clink sounding louder than it should in the quiet kitchen.
"Are you going to tell me what that was?"
He lets the question hang unanswered. Instead, his gaze moves over me, taking in whatever damage he's looking for.
"Can you eat?" he asks.
My eyes sting. I blink hard and turn toward the black window over the sink instead of looking at him.
"I don't know," I admit, which is the most honest answer I have right now. "Maybe."
He nods once, as if maybe is enough to work with.
He moves to the stove, opens a cupboard, and stares into it. There's a dented saucepan, a jar of something red, and a sleeve of pasta.
"Vittoria's waiting," he says, not turning around.
"For what?"
"For you to call her." He sets the saucepan on the burner. "If you want. While I make something. You have time."
I want her so badly it scares me.