Chapter 25
LUNA
The penthouse hasn’t changed much since I was here last. But one room—a former guest bedroom—did.
I’m standing in it now, staring in awe at a beautiful desk that’s situated in front of a window with the best view of the city I’ve ever seen. The bed, nightstands, and twin dressers are gone. This is no longer a bedroom. The entire, generous space has been converted into an office.
There’s a comfortable-looking leather chair tucked in. Bookshelves, empty and waiting to be filled, line the periphery of the room, in a sleek matching wood.
There’s a whole box of my favorite pens.
Another box brimming with journals.
And my laptop in the center of the desk.
My.
Laptop.
A cry of happiness gurgles out of me. It’s like being reunited with a long-lost relative.
My laptop is a part of me. I’ve had it all through college and my postgraduate years.
Hundreds of thousands of words I’ve written are saved on its hard drive.
I know how the finish is coming off the H key and the way the A sometimes sticks.
This laptop has been my best friend, a part of me.
As if I’m in a trance, I move toward it, hand trembling as I lift the lid. The reliable old girl chugs on. My heart beats faster with excitement. Surely Priest would have known I’d turn on my laptop. That I’d reconnect with the outside world.
He abandoned me after a call came in on the drive here, telling me that something came up unexpectedly and he’d be back in an hour or two.
I was swiftly escorted to the private elevator by my armed guards, while Saint hopped into the G-Wagon and Rocco took off with the two of them.
I’m locked inside, which is as irritating as it is insulting.
My armed jailers have no intention of letting me escape.
At this point, I don’t even know if I’d try.
I don’t know if I can trust anyone. Where I’d go. How I can get anywhere. I have no phone, no money, no ID. My purse and wallet are still in Priest’s possession. Sure, I could find my way to a police department, but would they believe me or would they think I’m having a breakdown?
I pull back the desk chair and sit as my wallpaper appears on the screen. It’s the handwritten verses to one of my favorite poems. The chair is soft and padded, and it molds to my body like it was specifically made for me.
It’s as if this whole office, in fact, was fashioned just for me. As if it’s meant to be mine. The shelves for my books, the desk, the chair, my laptop, my favorite pens.
Did Priest do this?
I shake my head, hand on my mouse as I navigate to the internet browser and double-click. It’s far more likely he had his men assemble the desk and shelves. I’m sure he wouldn’t bother wasting time on building me an office.
A dinosaur pops up on my screen, along with a message.
“Unable to connect to the internet,” I read aloud. “Shit.”
In a couple of clicks, I confirm what I already should have known. Priest made sure to keep me from the Wi-Fi. I have no internet access. Still no link to the outside world that I can only watch from the windows high above the city.
Disappointment slides through me.
I click again, and the folder with all my writing opens.
Everything is still here, thank God. I open my most recent document, a poem I was working on when the call came in from my father. My father who’s now gone.
The poem is eerily prescient, tackling the swiftness of life passing by.
It was the culmination of my emotions after watching the same elderly couple holding hands on a park bench.
For weeks, they showed up every Tuesday and Thursday, enjoying the shade of a wizened oak tree. Their love had been palpable.
And then, one Tuesday, only the man had been on the bench, looking lost and alone. The same on that Thursday and the next week and the several that had followed until I reached the only logical conclusion.
The wife had died.
And the husband still came to the same bench, sitting in the shade of the same oak tree. Remembering. Somehow carrying on when his other half was gone.
In the craziness of the last few weeks, I’d forgotten that I never finished the poem. With a deep breath, I settle my fingers on the keyboard.
Time to get it done.
An hour later when I type the last line, I notice a smear of blood on the desk that I’d overlooked until now.
I think about Priest’s raw hands.
And then I wonder if he really did build this office just for me, before I tell myself it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s made the way he feels about me clear. We’re never going to have a love story like that couple on the park bench.
Priest
“You going to tell us everything you know, or are you going to make this more difficult than it needs to be?” I ask the Revello soldier who’s bound to a chair before me.
We’re in one of our downtown warehouses where it’s easy to bring guys for questioning. Or torturing. I may be the don now instead of the confessor, but I’m in the mood to draw blood this morning.
I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, my wife hates me, and this piece of shit is keeping a secret that would help us get the answers we need.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything,” the guy says, eyes wide with fear. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
I pull my favorite knife from my pocket and hit the switch with my thumb. The blade juts out, menacing and sharp.
“Let’s not lie now, Carlo. I think we both know why you’re here.”
He starts sweating as I drag the tip of the knife along his throat. A little pressure, and a thin bead of blood appears.
“Please,” he begs. “Don’t torture me. I didn’t do anything wrong. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”
“Carlo, Carlo, Carlo,” I chide calmly, digging the knife in a bit more. “First of all, your mother’s not dead. But that can be arranged if you don’t want to cooperate. And second, we both know that you were working with my cousin Antonio, running an underground casino on the sly.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
More blood trickles down.
I make a shallow cut, starting under one ear and ending beneath the other.
“Fuck,” he cries out. “Okay, okay. I was running an underground gambling outfit with Antonio.”
“In Bratva territory,” I add, keeping the knife to his throat.
“Yes,” he agrees.
“Did you know it was Bratva territory when you started?” Saint asks.
Before Carlo can answer, Saint puts a bullet in his kneecap.
Carlo cries out and pisses in his pants.
“You took too long answering,” Saint says calmly. “Next time, say it faster, Carlo.”
“Okay, okay,” Carlo blubbers. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Just leave my mother out of this…”
By the time I get back to the penthouse, it’s almost time for dinner. I washed up at the warehouse after my men took care of Carlo, and I changed into a spare set of clothing. Roc lets me off at my private elevator that’s currently flanked by two armed guards.
I hope Luna didn’t get into any shit while I was gone. Scorpion’s timing with the lead on what happened to Antonio left a little something to be desired. I had hoped to help ease Luna back into life at the penthouse.
To keep an eye on her.
There’s not a whole lot of trouble she can get into here, aside from tearing apart my furniture and breaking dishes.
The windows are all locked and sealed, and with guards posted at all the doors and twenty-four-hour surveillance, she can’t escape.
Still, part of me wanted to see her reaction firsthand when she walked into the office I spent all night building her for the first time.
A stupid part of me.
A part of me that has no business existing.
Evidence: what just happened today. I tortured a man.
And yes, it was for a good reason. Carlo’s revelations put us in a whole different place than we were yesterday.
A far more powerful place. We learned more than I ever expected, and the knowledge is heavy and dark, weighing down on me.
Amedeo the Animal’s days on this earth are numbered.
Very fucking numbered.
I nod at the guards as I pass into the elevator. The doors glide closed, and then I’m rushing upward, getting closer to Luna by the second.
I’m not to the top yet when my phone rings.
I pull it out and see Amedeo’s name on the screen.
That didn’t take very fucking long.
I answer the call. “Revello.”
“Don Andriani,” he says in a tone of respect that still manages to sound snide.
“I’m just about to have dinner with my lovely wife,” I lie. “What can I do for you? Make it quick.”
“One of my soldiers disappeared last night,” he says, not wasting any time. “He got picked up at a club on the south side. You know anything about that?”
The elevator reaches the top floor and halts.
“You think I pay attention to your soldiers, Revello?” I bite out a dark laugh. “If so, you’ve got a severe misconception about how I spend my valuable time.”
“That’s what I told my guys,” Amedeo says. “But see, they swear they saw Carlo getting forced into a car by two of your brothers. I told them that doesn’t make any sense. Why would Don Andriani want one of our own soldiers?”
The elevator slides open, and I step into the hall, where another pair of armed guards is at the door to my penthouse, making sure that no one goes in or comes out without my permission.
I stay where I am, out of earshot, needing to let this phone conversation run its course.
Right now, Amedeo is playing me. Trying to see how much he can get me to admit I know without revealing how much information he already has.
“You’re right,” I agree smoothly. “It doesn’t make any sense at all. Look, I’ll put in a call to my brothers and see if there’s something I should be made aware of.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Thank you, Don Andriani,” Amedeo says finally, his voice stiff.
He’s holding back.
Good. I’m not ready to show my hand yet. I’ve got other plans.
“Any time, Revello. I assume you heard from Saint about dinner tomorrow night?”
“At Lucchese. Yes.”