Chapter 21
Damiano
I am mid-email, trying to coordinate the chaos of the clubs I left in Buenos Aires, when the door clicks open. Lorenzo walks in with a manila envelope in his hand.
"Che c’è?" I ask, not bothering to lift my gaze from the screen.
"I need you to take a look at this." His voice is flat, devoid of its usual sharp edge.
The sound of a heavy manila envelope slapping against the wood makes me pause. I narrow my eyes at the paper before looking up at my brother, who stands there, watching me like he’s waiting for a fuse to catch.
"I think your girlfriend’s brother knew Nicolo a lot better than he let on," Lorenzo says.
I frown. My heart hammers a sudden, violent rhythm against my ribs. I reach for the envelope, the paper feeling rough against my skin.
"Ma chi minchia..." I mutter, the air leaving my lungs as the first photo slides out.
At the center of the frame is unmistakably Nicolo Guidicelli.
Even through the grain of a surveillance shot, his blue eyes fixed in that intense, predatory stare I know all too well.
He is mid-handshake with another man. They are in an ornate hotel lobby, the kind of place where men go to hide in plain sight.
Nicolo’s gaze is locked onto the man opposite him, showing a level of cautious appraisal he does not give to just anyone.
The other man has his back to the camera, his broad shoulders draped in a dark, expensive suit.
I do not have to wonder for long who it was.
I slide the next photo out. It is a profile shot from a restaurant table.
They are sitting across from each other, lean and focused, lost in conversation.
I would know that face in a crowd of thousands.
The soft line of the nose, the specific set of the brow, all traits he shared with the woman upstairs.
Mateo Flores.
The air in the office suddenly feels too thin, smelling of old paper and the bitter dregs of my espresso.
"When was this taken?" I ask.
"A few months ago," Lorenzo answers matter-of-factly. He finally sinks into the chair across from me, crossing his legs with a casualness that irritates me.
"Who gave you this, Enzo?"
"It was sent anonymously months ago. At the time, I did not give a damn who Nicolo was breaking bread with, especially a stranger. We ran the face through the database, no business ties, no criminal record. So, I flagged it and moved on."
"Anonymously?"
Lorenzo shrugs, a gesture of indifference.
"I only realized it was the dead brother when I looked into your woman’s files again. I saw the family photos and the connection clicked."
I stare at the image until the edges blur. The betrayal is a physical weight in my gut. How could he be this stupid? He had everything. A successful business, a clean life, a sister who worshipped the ground he walked on. He was not a greedy man. He did not need Nicolo’s business.
"You’re sure there was no business?" I ask, my grip tightening on the photo until the paper crinkles.
"Nothing in the books," Lorenzo says, his eyes dark.
"It looked... friendly. And Nicolo had not set foot in Argentina since that meeting, at least not until right before the dead brother reported to you.
"I look at Mateo’s smiling face in the grain of the photo and feel a surge of pure, unadulterated rage.
He played me. He played the "concerned brother" while he was dancing with the devil himself. He put a target on Katarina’s back the moment he shook that hand.
"Che idiota..." I growl. He did not just risk his own life. He invited a wolf into his home and left the door open for his sister.
Just then, the double doors of my office burst open.
"Papa," Lorenzo says, pushing himself up from the chair the moment the door slams open.
Don Cotrini is a formidable man, even at seventy. His presence commands any room effortlessly. He walks, each step slow and deliberate, as if he’s leading a procession only he can see. His face, usually carved from cold calculation, is twisted with barely contained fury.
"Uh-oh," I whisper as he takes predatory strides toward me.
He ignores Lorenzo completely, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a scorching intensity that has not faded in two years. I drop the photos on the desk, the sound muted by the sudden, suffocating silence.
"Disgraziato!" The word is a hammer blow, spat out in the thick dialect. "You leave us for two years. Two years of silence! You abandon your duty, your name, and your family, only to return with this?"
He gestures wildly, encompassing the manila envelope and the entire situation I’ve dragged back to the safety of his house.
"A strange woman on your arm and a war with Nicolo Guidicelli! Do you think this is a game, Damiano?"
"Welcome back, father. I missed you, too.” I say with a taunting smile, I know he hates so much.
“Do not start with me!” he answers, his nostrils flaring in anger.
“This has nothing to do with Katarina. And I didn’t start a war. Nicolo did."
"You kidnapped a woman he was after? That looks to me like YOU started it!" My father thunders, slamming his fist on the desk, rattling my espresso cup.
"I didn’t kidnap her! Why does everybody say that?! I saved her from that rat."
"He is a rat, yes, but he is our rat! Stop upsetting the balance! You think you can march back here and stir the pot?"
"This mess was made by a man who decided to touch something that belongs to me," I counter, pushing out of my chair. The height difference between us is negligible now, like two lions staring each other down.
My father’s laugh bellows across the room, harsh and mocking. "Yours? Are you saying that woman is of importance to you, Damiano?"
"She is. And she will be under my protection whether Nicolo wants it or not."
My father lowers his voice into a dangerous hiss. "You left because you didn’t want this life, and now you drag trouble back to our doorstep? Who is this woman that got you wrapped around her finger anyway?!"
Lorenzo steps forward quickly, sliding a large, glossy photo of Katarina off the corner of the desk and holding it out to our father, a desperate attempt at a distraction.
"This is Katarina," Lorenzo mutters.
My father fishes his eyeglasses out of his jacket pocket and puts them on to see the photo.
His tirade grinds to a jarring halt. He takes the photograph almost involuntarily, holding the image under the harsh office light.
The furious scowl on his face slowly dissolves into a deep, complicated silence.
"She looks... familiar," he mutters, his voice raspy, trailing off as his focus narrows on Katarina's face.
"She’s a celebrity, Father," I interject, irritated. "She’s famous. Of course, she looks familiar."
He ignores me, running a thumb over the glossy paper. A deep frown settles on his brow.
"No. Not from the news." He hands the photo back to Lorenzo, his mood shifting from volcanic rage to a calculating coldness that is far more unsettling. He does not say another word about Katarina, but the flicker of curiosity remains.
"I am just protecting what’s mine, Father, just like how you raised me," I add, the words low and steady. "And I will deal with Nicolo. We have proof her brother wasn’t so clean." I point to the photos scattered across the mahogany.
Don Cotrini does not even glance down. His eyes are still fixed on me, calculating.
"Yours? You think she's yours to keep? Unless you marry that woman, she’s not your property. So deal with it like a grown-up, not by running around like a street thug with a girl on your mind!"
Lorenzo steps forward, a calming hand on our father’s arm.
“Nicolo has not made any move yet. We’ll come up with a plan.”
"The plan is to keep this family in power and not fall because of the foolish choices of a boy who always thought he was smarter than his elders." He looks back at me, his face softening into a mask of bitter disappointment.
"Fix this, Damiano. And then, we will discuss your future, because it seems your two years of freedom have taught you nothing."
With that, he turns, his departure as dramatic and heavy as his entrance, leaving the tension thick and humming in the air between us.