Chapter 3
“When things fall apart, we have to rebuild one brick at a time, even if our hands are shaking.”
— ROBERT MONROE
Constance
I should have walked away the second he said the word “stay.”
But grief makes people reckless. Or maybe just me.
The truth is, I don’t have anywhere else to go. Not really.
There’s nothing left of my old life, the one I was carefully building. It’s been splintered into a thousand sharp pieces that I don’t have the strength to pick up alone.
My father never should’ve accepted the deal with Maximo.
I told him I could take out loans for school or go to a cheaper community college.
But he told me that Maximo could help him give me the future I deserved, and it was either Maximo’s offer or go into debt, so I stopped arguing with him.
I wish I hadn’t caved so easily; then maybe he would still be alive.
Debt is better than an early death any day.
Now here I am, following Maximo Luciani’s cousin Enzo deeper into his fortress. The corridors are too quiet, the walls too thick, everything designed to remind me I’m no longer in my world. Yet, the farther I go, the more I hate how normal it starts to feel.
Enzo leads me down a hallway, opens a door, and says, “This is one of Maximo’s finest guestrooms.”
I step inside the absurdly elegant space. It’s practically a luxury hotel suite, all polished wood and curated elegance.
“What an absolute shithole,” I mutter sarcastically.
Enzo huffs a laugh. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, since I have no beef with him. As far as I know, he wasn’t personally responsible for keeping my father safe from Maximo’s enemies.
“One more thing,” Enzo adds before leaving. “Maximo took your father’s death harder than you think. Harder than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t need you adding weight to a load he already carries on his own.”
Finally, he walks out, closing the door behind him with his words still hanging in the air.
The mob boss should feel guilty and carry the burden. And I won’t feel bad about reminding him as much.
Annoyed and unsettled, I decide to take a warm shower to remove the chill from my bones.
The attached bathroom is a depressing black marble that I approve of, with plush towels and toiletries. There’s a soaking tub as well as a walk-in shower stall.
I kick off my shoes, strip off the soaked blazer, and stand in front of the mirror over the double sink.
I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
My mascara’s half-smeared down my cheeks, and my dark hair is stringy with rain.
I’m filled with emotions I don’t know how to express or even articulate.
I’m exhausted and absolutely disheveled. That, at least, is one thing I can control. I head into the shower to begin putting myself back together.
I scrub myself raw in the steam, but nothing touches the grief. The water turns cold before I finally feel clean.
By the time I’m dressed in the soft, white robe hanging on the back of the door, it’s nearly eight. I’m tempted to skip the dinner invitation and throw myself into the massive bed that dominates the room.
But I’m not stupid.
Maximo Luciani isn’t a man who makes idle threats or promises.
And I didn’t come here to play games or just to insult him. I came here for answers. For justice. For revenge.
So, just as a clock somewhere in the house begins tolling the hour, I leave to go search for the dining room.
A young man, barely old enough to shave by the looks of his smooth cheeks, is standing just outside my room.
He’s wearing a suit that’s slightly too large for him, and I can see the butt of a gun peeking out from under the jacket.
I don’t miss his double-take at my choice of attire before his eyes quickly lower to the floor.
But the dry robe is better than the soggy clothes I was wearing.
“Maximo instructed me to escort you to dinner,” he says, then walks away, leaving me to trail along behind him.
The dining room is on the main floor. It’s the kind of space meant to impress or intimidate guests.
A long mahogany table dominates the space with twenty high-backed chairs, each one carved like a throne.
There’s only one place setting at either end.
And at the far head of the table sits the devil himself.
Maximo looks like he stepped out of a Vogue spread—black suit, cufflinks, a wristwatch that probably costs more than my car. He’s sipping a glass of wine, eyes steady on mine as I enter.
“You’re late,” he says. “And underdressed.” I don’t miss the way his heated gaze lowers to where the robe crosses my chest.
Pulling it together tighter, I remind him, “Everything I owned went up in the flames, including my clothes. The suit I bought for the funeral was new and still soaking wet.”
“I’ll have the closet in the guest bedroom full by tomorrow afternoon. Luca, call my tailor and take care of it,” he says to the young man who escorted me down.
“That’s not necessary.”
“It's the least I can do, since you blame me for the fire.” Maximo then gestures to the opposite end of the table, and I take a seat.
A plate of food is already laid out—roasted lamb, saffron rice, broccoli. Everything smells incredible. I don’t touch a thing.
Maximo cuts into his meal with surgical precision. “You’re not hungry?”
“I’m not here for the five-star cuisine.”
“That’s too bad. My chef is excellent.”
I presume the man who appears from a nearby hallway is the chef, judging by his all-white uniform. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Luciani?”
“As always, Francis. Thank you for preparing extra servings for my guest at the last minute.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir. If that’s all, then I’ll bid you good evening.”
As Chef Francis gives a small bow and leaves, I fold my arms over my chest. “Can we just discuss the real reason I’m here?”
Maximo doesn’t look up from his plate when he responds. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“I don’t have time to waste. Every moment my father’s killer or killers draw breath without consequences infuriates me. Can you, or can you not, help me track them down?”
He wipes his mouth with a linen napkin, then he sets down his fork and leans back, eyes locked on mine. “I can give you the names of the people I suspect. But if you think this is going to be a quick, easy path to closure, you’re mistaken.”
“I don’t want closure,” I tell him. “I want a body count.”
Maximo’s expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes darkens.
“You’re not a killer, Constance.”
Now that I’m his houseguest, I guess I’ve been upgraded from Ms. Monroe to Constance.
“I could learn how to be one. I’ve certainly got the proper motivation.”
“You think it’s as simple as pulling a trigger?” He shakes his head. “It’s about what comes after that—the guilt, the silence. The weight of another soul on your own for the rest of your life.”
“I already carry all of those things.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Then let me carry the rest. I have to do this, but you don’t.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavier than anything he’s said before.
For a moment, my chest seems to tighten, and I can’t breathe. I’m afraid I might want his words to mean something more.
“Why do you care?” I whisper as I pull the robe tighter around my neck, suddenly feeling exposed. “About me. About any of this.”
“I don’t,” he replies, too quickly.
But that’s a lie. And we both know it.
If I had to guess, avenging the loss of my father is more about maintaining his reputation than anything else. But I can’t help but suddenly feel self-conscious, even exposed, as his eyes sweep over me.
Maximo wipes his mouth again and throws his napkin on the table, then picks up a file and walks towards me. He lays the file down by my untouched silverware.
“What’s this?”
“Your father’s security reports for the last month. There are notes from my crew, call logs, payment records.”
I don’t move to touch it. “Why give this to me?”
“Because that was our deal. I’m giving you all that I have to go on so far.”
I study him, his sharp jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of something human behind all that control.
Enzo was right.
“You feel guilty,” I say, and the way his jaw tightens tells me I hit the mark.
Maximo walks back to his seat and picks up the wineglass by his plate. He takes a sip before saying, “You’re free to stay here as long as you want, but you’re also free to leave if you decide that you can’t handle this world.”
“And what do you get out of this deal?” I ask curiously.
“I want revenge as much as you do, and I don’t know who I can trust right now. Except for you. I know you didn’t betray your own father. I want that same loyalty if I can earn it.”
“Earn it?” I laugh bitterly. “Good luck.”
He lifts a single dark eyebrow, as if he accepts my challenge, and maybe even likes the fight in me.
I wish his approval didn’t fill a sliver of the emptiness inside of me, and I hate that it does.
After dinner, Luca escorts me back to my room. “Maximo said you could have this now,” he says as he hands me the cell phone I had left in my car when I stormed in. “It’s clean.”
“What does that mean?” I ask as I flip it all around, noticing all the smudged fingerprints on the screen.
Instead of answering, he gives me a small smile and says, “Goodnight, Ms. Monroe. If you need anything, someone will be outside your door.” With that, he pulls the door to my room closed.
I open my phone and see that I’ve missed two calls and have text messages from Melissa that’ve been read by someone, but I haven’t yet seen them.
Did you go back to the hotel after the funeral? My offer still stands for you to crash with me.
Please tell me you just went back to the hotel and didn’t do anything crazy.
I send back a response: I came to Scarsdale and I’m at Luciani’s house if something happens to me. He invited me to stay here until I figure out what I’m going to do next.
I can’t tell my best friend that I’m here for revenge. She won’t understand or approve.
The floating dots indicate that she’s replying and my phone dings four times a few seconds later with consecutive messages:
You’re staying at his house?
Connie, wtf are you doing?
Get out of there and come stay with me!
You know I’m here for you, whatever you need.
It takes me a moment to figure out how to articulate my reply.
How do I tell my best friend that she can’t help me with what I need to do now?
I don’t want to hurt her feelings, so I finally type: Your roommate doesn’t want me moping around your apartment.
I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine.
I’m going to bed. Text me tomorrow, okay?
She replies: Be careful, Connie
After glancing at her message, I throw my phone on the nightstand and turn my attention to the thick file that Maximo gave to me at dinner.
I pile up some pillows, getting comfortable sitting on the bed, then I spend the next several hours flipping through the sheafs of paper, pages of schedules, timestamps, notes from men whose names I don’t know.
One entry near the back finally catches my eye. A note dated three days before my father’s death:
“Monroe reported seeing an unfamiliar black car outside his restaurant three nights in a row. Requested additional patrol. Told him no action will be taken until he provides photo and license plate of vehicle. Probably just being paranoid.
My stomach drops.
They knew something was coming. Maximo and his men knew my father was in trouble, and they let him burn!