62. Look After You
LOOK AFTER YOU
Iscrutinize Salvatore Caruso closely, ready to react if he pulls a weapon like his youngest son did.
He doesn’t. He stares at Carina like she’s an apparition that might disappear at any moment. Tall, in decent shape for his age, and dressed in a custom suit, he appears more like a gentleman than any boss I’ve encountered.
Until his cool, calculated gaze sweeps around, lingering on me, and I glimpse some savagery.
Salvatore’s lip curls, as though he’s sniffed something bad, before his eyes return to his daughter.
The rapid Italian sounds more foreign than usual, following the extended silence.
I’m trying to catch up, to translate, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
The woman halts on the stairs landing, now wearing a short dress and high heels. Pink floods her cheeks when her eyes meet mine, and then they dart around.
“Can we talk in your office?” Carina asks the question in English.
Salvatore glances at me, asking if I speak Italian in Italian. Rather disdainfully.
“Do you speak Russian?” Carina retorts, spinning and walking deeper into the house.
I know Salvatore won’t want to show me his back, so I follow her first. The only thing the Carusos would gain from killing me is a powerful enemy.
They’ll avoid doing so, but they also have no idea why I’m here and view me as an immediate threat.
My family might distrust Carina, but they don’t fear her.
There’s a brief exchange of Italian behind me. Salvatore chastising Enzo, it sounds like. Then footsteps echo off the tiles as another person heads in this direction.
Carina opens a door on the left and enters the room. An office. I walk in after her, opting to stand by a built-in bookshelf rather than take one of the chairs.
Salvatore takes a seat at his desk. There’s affection when he gazes at Carina, animosity when his eyes flick to me. “Cosa ci fa lui qui?”
I answer before Carina can. “Siamo in vacanza.”
She aims a proud smile my way.
Unease creeps into Salvatore’s expression. He’s wondering how well I understand the language, if his one advantage—aside from numbers—is nonexistent. I say nothing else, in any language, letting him stew.
Carina pulls the drive out of her pocket and sets it on the desk.
Her father exhales. Stands and walks over to a cabinet in the corner. I hear the splash of liquid hitting glass.
Salvatore offers a drink to Carina as well. She shakes her head, declining.
He doesn’t offer one to me. I’m more annoyed by the delay in explanation than the discourtesy.
“Your mother didn’t die instantly,” he tells Carina.
I see—and sense—her stiffen, even more taken aback by the abrupt statement than I am.
Salvatore continues speaking without waiting for a response.
“When you were old enough to ask questions, I made sure that was the story you were told. It was”—he swishes the liquid in his glass, watching it drip down the sides—“unpleasant to discuss the details. Serena was conscious during the trip to the hospital. I was in the ambulance with her. She made me promise that I would protect you. Reminded me that daughters were different from sons. She was so excited for a girl …”
His gaze turns distant as he gets lost in memories.
Carina’s inhale sounds shaky.
“I sent you to Chicago because I was sure you’d be safe there.
It was supposed to be one year, maybe two.
Time you’d never remember, I told myself.
But there was never a right moment. There would be a new threat.
Your brothers were getting older, and I needed to prepare them.
You were too young to understand why you needed to be careful, and then you were too settled in your routine, and then you were in college.
An adult who could make her own choices.
So, I let you choose. I only insisted you come home one week each summer. Until I was mailed this.”
Salvatore opens a drawer, pulling out a glossy booklet that he drops on his desk.
Carina leans closer to look. I take a couple of steps forward to be sure, but I recognize it from a distance. I have the same symphony program, kept as a foolish memento from what I thought would be my final trip to Chicago.
“You weren’t safe there anymore. So, I came up with another solution.”
“Giving me to Nico Morello,” Carina states flatly.
Salvatore sighs, reaching out for the drive she set on his desk. “I assume you know what’s on this?”
When Carina doesn’t respond, he glances at me. I nod once.
“Nico is a powerful man, Carina. An engagement to him would protect you. I intended to give you a choice on the day of your wedding—on whether or not you wanted it to take place. Our alliance would have already been in place. Whether you married him or not, you would have stayed safe.”
“You should have told me.”
“Maybe,” Salvatore allows. “I was not expecting such strong objections. You’d always had a placid temperament, like your mother.
” He sips some drink. “Then you ran with the drive, and I was terrified Nico would find you both.” He glances at me, the resentment in his expression more muted but still there.
“I suppose the infame helped keep that from happening.”
I smile, baring my teeth at the mention of Andrea.
“Your men were not even looking in the right arrondissement. If we had not ‘eavesdropped’ on you, I wouldn’t have known to help.
” I pick up the program, staring at the photo of Carina featured as first violin for a few seconds before I page through the rest of the booklet. “Any idea who sent this? No message?”
“No message. It came in a plain envelope. Mailed from Rome.”
“Nothing since?”
“Nothing mentioning Carina. I receive many threats. I have many enemies, as you know.”
“I do.” I drop the program.
The resulting slap of paper against wood lingers in the room.
“So”—Salvatore leans back in his chair, causing the leather to creak—“you’re married.”
I suppose the words are aimed at both of us, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“Yes.”
“Are you happy?”
That question is exclusively aimed at Carina.
She nods. “Yes.”
Salvatore nods, too, as his eyes return to me. “Then we have other matters to discuss.”