Chapter 9
9
Max
The way Grey spoke about the La Marcas had Max assuming they lived at the top of a hill in a black castle, with crows circling ominously above. But the Barbaranis’ mortal enemies lived about twenty minutes down Cove Road on an estate that looked like something an architect would win a prestigious award for, but that ordinary people would squint at for a while, trying to work out if it was ‘expensive-ugly’ or just weird. The winery itself was a white block sheathed in glass that made it look like an icicle unperturbed by the Australian sun. Down a green hill, past the vineyards, she could see the La Marca mansion, complete with Rapunzel turrets.
Grey had been silent the whole drive there. Probably plotting the best burial site in case she ‘fell’ out of the passenger door. So she’d had to do her own research on the rival dynasty, which was fine because she didn’t want to talk to him anyway, and focusing on something else made her forget she was in a car. Her phone had managed to charge to 39 per cent with the charger he’d begrudgingly let her use. She was still unclear whether his hesitation had been due to concern she would use the cord as a garrotte or fear at what havoc she could wreak with a fully functioning phone.
For once the internet hadn’t been too bad at giving her a relatively unbiased assessment of the two feuding families – an article by a reporter called Sophie Kingsley had given her the basics. Max felt like she was in the car with the journalist, not Greyson, as she answered her questions in succinct, punchy Times New Roman anecdotes.
Why do the families hate each other?
They’ve been enemies since the end of the war, Sophie replied. The La Marcas think Emilio stole the sangue wine recipe he became famous for from Antonio.
And the Barbaranis?
They think Antonio killed Emilio.
How did Emilio die?
His body was found at the bottom of a cliff in Dolphin Sound. There’s no evidence suggesting Antonio or the La Marcas had anything to do with it.
I was a cop and I’ve never heard of any police involvement.
That’s because it’s a silent war; they don’t involve authorities. It’s the one thing they can agree on.
Crime affiliations?
None you’ll be able to link them to. The La Marcas’ connection to Kaine Skinner suggests they were involved with his meth enterprises, but you’ll never get anyone turning on them – they brand all their employees in the inner-circle.
Brand? Like cattle?
Or gang insignia. It’s called the La Marca Cuore. Every La Marca child is tattooed with the family crest when they’re fourteen – right on the breastbone, just above the heart. Those who swear their allegiance to them get it too.
So the La Marcas plotting the murder of Giovanni Barbarani is quite plausible in your opinion?
See for yourself. In the past few years alone, we’ve had Tomaso Barbarani’s brakes cut in his car, Ariana La Marca’s boyfriend in a fist fight in Perth with Luca Barbarani, and the lobbying efforts to have Francesca Barbarani charged for her animal rights protest at the Ribs and Bibs restaurant in Scarborough have La Marca written all over them.
Kingsley offered up a bunch more examples of the intertwining stems of both families’ history laced with thorns. So, yeah, the family who hated the Barbaranis, who clearly had hundreds of unburied hatchets still sticking out of the ground from half a century of rivalry, was Max’s clear front runner for this murder plot, even without the knowledge that their employee Kaine Skinner had been paid to take out the hit.
Two plus two equalled four.
Why then, was Greyson treating it like a complex calculus equation that made no sense? Perhaps if she’d knocked on his door in something similar to what she was wearing now, with her hair free of grass seeds and her make-up perfect, he would have been more willing to take her seriously.
Well, maybe not seriously. Years of being a five-foot-three female police officer had taught her that.
Nella Barbarani’s navy tank top covered the essentials but only just. And of course, someone like Nella couldn’t just have a simple tank top – a ring of pearls was currently framing Max’s cleavage like it was on display at the Louvre.
Max had to roll up the cuffs on Nella’s ripped black jeans. Luckily the outfit went okay with her Doc Martens, because all Nella had left were heels; her feet must have been permanently frozen into Barbie-doll tip-toes. The only jacket was something disturbingly fluffy and pink, like an electrocuted marshmallow. Max decided she would brave the cold.
She was wearing her own underwear.
Grey’s glare had deepened when she’d stepped out of his bathroom in Nella’s clothes, and it hadn’t left his face the whole drive. ‘You’re going to be cold,’ he said – an accusation, not a concern – as he parked in the winery visitors’ car park. ‘They put the air conditioner on so people will buy more.’
‘I’m fine,’ Max said, smoothing down the goose prickles on her arms. ‘I’m not wearing a dead flamingo.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Grey stalked ahead, hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket. Max had the urge to rip it off him and snuggle down against the stiff leather.
‘Are we meant to be in disguise?’ she asked as they stomped the reddish-brown dirt off their shoes on the entrance mat.
‘No. Why?’ He raised his brows. Urgh, he was radiating warmth. She could smell leather and some sort of floral soap.
‘I thought your “work” outfit would involve a cloak and all-over leather body armour.’
‘Like Batman?’
‘Or a ninja. I’m kind of disappointed we’re coming through the front door. I thought we’d be scaling the side of the building to jump through a window.’ She ducked under his enormous arm as he held the door open.
‘Is that why you became a cop? So you could scale buildings?’
‘And run red lights,’ she said, ignoring the lump in her throat. If everything went to plan, if she could stop this murder, that lump might go away. She wished she didn’t have to do everything on the Giant’s terms – like she was a twelve-year-old without a licence, relying on a reluctant parent to chauffeur her around. ‘And hold a—’
‘ Shhh! ’ He grabbed her wrist, his shovel hand practically snapping her bones in half, and pulled her against the wall to let a wine tour-group through. ‘Not in here.’ His breath was warm too. Goddamn it, he was right about the aircon. How strange would he think she was if she put her arms around him and absorbed a little bit of that heat? It wasn’t like his impression of her could get any worse.
‘I was gonna say taser. You’re a little paranoid, Batman,’ she said, lifting her chin. She was going to need to go to a chiropractor if she kept looking up at him like this; he was so stupidly tall.
‘It’s my job to be paranoid.’
‘Not about murders apparently. Murders are no big deal.’
‘Shut your mouth.’ His hand moved as though he was going to do it for her. Suddenly her wrist was free and he looked down, aghast. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to ...’
Why was he apologising?
Oh.
She’d done it, hadn’t she? When he’d tried to chase her out of the Barbarani grounds that morning. Her wild-eyed ‘don’t touch me’ thing. Looked like she’d really freaked him the fuck out.
Strangely, that thought didn’t warm her like she expected it to.
Hands by his sides, he strode over to the long oak bar. She followed like a gosling crossing the road after its mother. There were clumps of people at different stages of wine tasting. A group of women giggled and frolicked on the left side of the bar with the artificial enthusiasm of a hen’s weekend, their fake-tanned arms reaching for samples and hiking up their push-up bras. To the right was a salt-and-pepper-haired group sniffing the wine like bloodhounds trying to find a body.
The restaurant existed in an alternate universe through the glass windows. It was packed even though it wasn’t even midday yet. Max wondered if the scene was similar down at the Barbarani winery. Grey had dragged her through Jett’s shed, ignoring her request to scope out the rest of the property.
‘Raphael.’ Grey’s voice echoed, a man giving his last words before he was hanged.
A dark head shot up from behind the bar. ‘Hawke.’
Max raised her eyebrows. ‘ Hawke ?’ she mouthed.
Grey ignored her. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Or go for a walk?’ Max chimed in. That earned her a glare from Grey and an amused lip quiver from the barman. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought we were rhyming.’
Grey’s glare had the shaking focus of a bull about to be let out of the pen.
‘I like the sound of a walk.’ Raphael motioned at another staff member, a tall, blond guy who sort of looked familiar.
‘Forrest,’ Raphael said, ‘ cinque minuti. ’
Ah. Forrest Valentine. That’s why Blondie looked familiar. He was the boyfriend whose jaw had collided with Luca Barbarani’s fist a year ago. Max was pleased her connection-making synapses had not gone limp these past six months. Valentine’s headshot had been next to Luca’s in Kingsley’s article. What else had Kingsley said about him? Something about a boat?
Forrest watched their little group with the same suspicious underwear-removing glare of his headshot as Raphael led them out the glass door onto the La Marca acreage.
The cold teeth of the ocean wind gnawed through Max as she followed Raphael to the corner of a balcony, the glass guardrails forming a point like the helm of a ship. Grey tucked his hands into his pockets again, his infuriatingly warm-looking jacket sealing him in.
Raphael peeled off his own expensive-looking trench and held it out to Max. For a strange second she thought he wanted her to hang it up on a rack for him. ‘Your lips are blue,’ he said.
‘It’s fine.’ She waved him away, jaw vibrating uncontrollably.
‘I insist.’ He basically threw it over her.
If she thought she’d seen Grey glare before, it was nothing on what his face did now. If she wasn’t so unbelievably cold, she would have laughed. ‘Th–thank you.’
Now that her basic needs at the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy were met, she was able to assess the man standing in front of her. In her internet searches she hadn’t come up with anyone named Raphael. Was he a La Marca? He looked Italian – thick, dark eyebrows, long face and broad jaw dotted with stubble. His olive-black hair was shaved at the sides, with a styled comb-over that should have looked a bit Hitler-esque but on him, it worked. He was slightly shorter than Grey (to be fair, most normal humans were) and slender, and his long fingers were shackled with black and gold rings.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Raphael’s smile was indulgent as he looked at her, but she didn’t miss the flicker of his eyes towards Grey. Right. Max had done a bit of undercover work; she knew how to deal with guys like this. She’d have to go with the exact opposite technique she’d been trying with Grey. Telling Raphael she was a cop wouldn’t do her any favours. But snuggling into his jacket and flicking her hair back might.
‘I was thinking you might be able to enlighten us.’ Grey stepped his feet apart like guys do when they’re taking a piss or trying to take up as much space as possible to show who’s in charge.
Raphael did the same.
‘I had nothing to do with that university student in the ICU.’
The what now? Max watched closely, wishing she could read Grey’s micro-expressions. But his face barely moved; neither did Raphael’s. Neither did the Earth, in that moment.
‘The Barbaranis don’t make compromised wine,’ Grey said.
‘And the La Marcas don’t make suicidal business decisions,’ Raphael offered. ‘Giovanni’s family is far more adept at ruining his reputation than any external source.’
Max thought of the articles about Luca and Frankie. The humiliation Giovanni clearly wanted Luca to feel at the bachelor auction. ‘I don’t see how the fall of Barbarani Wine would be suicidal to the La Marcas,’ Max said. ‘Aren’t they business rivals?’
Grey looked at her like she’d squatted and taken a dump all over Raphael’s Italian loafers.
‘Are you familiar with the concept of mutually assured destruction?’ Raphael asked quietly, his eyes narrowed but more curious than accusing.
‘I’ve seen Oppenheimer .’
‘The La Marcas and the Barbaranis share the market,’ Grey interjected. ‘They have an understanding, which is none of your business to understand.’
‘But if a Barbarani bleeds,’ Raphael said, ‘everyone turns to a La Marca to find the knife.’
‘Thank you for that segue.’ Grey glared. ‘It brings me to why I’m really here.’
Not true. Max could tell he wanted more from Raphael about this compromised wine. She could join the dots well enough: a student in the ICU and a rumour about dodgy wine. But the Barbarani Fixer didn’t seem to be the type to demand answers.
He was the type who took them.
Raphael didn’t look fazed. ‘How about you segue to that by introducing me to your, ah ...’
‘Max,’ she said, before Grey could start his favourite rant about how disgusting and repulsive he found her. She leaned a hip against the glass and watched Raphael’s eyes do that thing men do: Operation Check-out – stealth mode activated – looking but not looking. Now she was thankful for the cold air and Nella Barbarani’s thin little pearl singlet.
‘And what are you to Greyson Hawke?’ Raphael knew all the tricks too. Chin ducked, eyelashes lowered, mouth curving.
‘My security guard,’ Grey growled.
‘The Barbaranis have given you your own personal security, Greyson? Surely not just to come around here? Are you really that incapable of looking after yourself?’ Raphael’s eyes sparkled with deliberate misunderstanding.
‘She’s patrolling at the gala.’ Grey looked like he was teetering on the edge of explosive rage. Good to know it didn’t take much.
Good to know I’m not the only one.
Raphael tsked and leant against the glass railing. Max’s stomach dropped when she saw exactly how high up they were, an ocean of karri trees below them. She’d never liked heights. ‘What is it the Barbaranis are so worried about, hey, Greyson?’ he asked. ‘The amount of money they spend on people like you and Jett and gorgeous Max here – surely that could be put to better use?’
‘I just want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’ Grey folded his arms. Real power pose now. Max resisted the eyeroll that burned behind her temple. ‘Do I have anything to worry about from the La Marcas tomorrow night?’
‘The horse’s ...’ Raphael gaped in mock outrage. ‘Am I the horse ?’
Max laughed. Raphael stood a little straighter.
‘I’ve heard whispers.’
‘Oh, I bet you have, Hawke. Always hearing whispers, aren’t you? But I thought lately it was you doing the whispering – dear old So—’
It happened like a fork of lightning. A crack. A flash. So quick Max couldn’t be sure she’d seen it. Grey had Raphael up against the glass helm, like two pirates duelling for command of the ship. This wasn’t loyal diligence to the Barbaranis. This was pure male rage. Wounded pride.
‘You don’t want to finish that sentence,’ Grey snarled.
‘I don’t?’ Raphael raised his perfectly curated eyebrows lazily, as though he and Grey were talking about the football score.
But Max didn’t have time to wonder why Grey was contemplating pushing Raphael down into the karri trees. ‘Grey. Let him go.’ She tried to dial back the commanding voice she’d perfected at work to nothing short of terrifying. She’d made her fair share of guys Grey’s size wet themselves.
However, when Grey did eventually step away from Raphael, she wondered if it was less to do with her and more to do with not wanting repercussions from the La Marcas for assaulting their barman.
Max ignored Grey who was huffing like a rhinoceros and stepped closer to Raphael. She could smell his thick, delicious perfume – cranberries and musk. ‘How long have you worked for the La Marcas?’
He flashed her a brilliant, shark tooth smile. ‘How about I answer your questions, little Max, if you answer mine?’
‘Fair enough.’ Her stomach tightened. Raphael didn’t seem like the kind of person it was easy to lie to. She suspected he was the carefully appointed La Marca security guard for a reason, even if his clever disguise was flirtatious barman.
‘All my life,’ he said. ‘How long have you worked for the Barbaranis?’
She sensed Grey inhale as though he was going to answer, but she transmitted a silent, angry message: You’ve almost fucked our chances of getting anything from him by threatening to throw him off the balcony. I’ll take it from here. ‘I’m a private hire,’ she said. ‘It’s my first gig with them. I’ve been in Sydney doing celebrity stuff.’
‘Wonderful, wonderful.’ Raphael leant closer. ‘Your turn.’ He winked.
‘Do you know Kaine Skinner?’
Raphael’s eyes flashed. Fire in a pan. ‘Yes.’
‘Is he here?’
Raphael held up a finger. ‘My turn.’
Max clenched her jaw.
‘Do you have a boyfriend? Or a husband?’
Max’s insides twisted, but not like they used to at the mention of Damien. Now it was more like a dull ache, a muscle that would never be quite right. She felt Grey’s eyes on her, but she kept her narrowed gaze on Raphael. ‘No. Do you know if Kaine Skinner plans to assassinate Giovanni Barbarani?’
Raphael’s jaw tightened, his nostrils making that warning flare Max had seen on countless occasions before she dodged (or didn’t) a fist to the face. She felt Grey tense beside her – a tiger ready to strike if Raphael moved first. Then slowly, Raphael’s stunned face cut into a grin.
‘I like you,’ he said. ‘No bullshit, just straight to the point. Don’t often see that in women. I haven’t seen Kaine Skinner in three years, I thought he was in Sardinia.’
Max looked at Grey. Is he lying? But he just glared at her.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said.
‘You’re right.’ The smile widened. ‘I do not believe, if Kaine Skinner were here, that he would worry himself with something as tedious as an assassination. From what I’ve heard, Skinner’s a bit tied up right now. Lots of aftershock, I can imagine, from sending one’s own wife to prison for one’s own crimes. Now, my question – are you hungry?’
Max shrugged. ‘I could eat.’
Grey growled in protest.
‘Fabulous.’ Raphael rubbed his hands together. ‘We’re fully booked, but I think I can squeeze you two in.’
‘We’re not staying.’ The wind picked up as Grey spoke and tugged the light brown strands of his hair, but they didn’t go far – even the Fixer’s hair was under control. ‘And we haven’t finished asking you about Skinner. I need your word, Raphael, that nothing is happening tomorrow night. If anything breaks out between the Barbaranis and the La Marcas and people get hurt, you and I will both be out of jobs. We might even be out of a life as well. We keep them safe. You know how this works. When Barbarani blood runs, so does La Marca blood.’
Raphael regarded Grey like someone in an art gallery trying to decipher meaning from an abstract painting. Max watched his face to see if there was some sort of silent communication going on between the two men. Two enemies. No, not enemies. Definitely not friends. Colleagues? Reluctant partners?
Maybe that was the only kind of professional relationship Grey was capable of having. Maybe the only kind of relationship, full stop.
‘One: Kaine Skinner does not work for the La Marcas anymore. Two: I swear to you, Greyson, if I see Skinner, I will deliver him to you myself. As you say, we are in opposite trenches, but we both want the war to be over.’ Raphael paused, looking intently at Grey. ‘Stay for lunch, please,’ he said quietly.
‘It will never be over,’ Grey said. Max wanted to kick him. ‘But I appreciate your honesty. We will stay for lunch.’
So Raphael was telling the truth?
‘This way, please.’ Raphael held out an arm like a butler in an old movie and led them through a Staff Only door to the glass box restaurant. His smile twinkled like Grey had conceded something. A warm, strong hand pushed her forward and Raphael’s masculine, musky scent enveloped her as tightly as his coat. His hand moulded over the small of her back, not quite touching her arse but on the closest vertebra to it. Grey sucked in a breath as they were swept into the warm air of the restaurant and Raphael’s fingers grazed over the loop of Nella’s jeans. Max felt her skin prickle despite the fact the heating was definitely on in the restaurant.
‘What’s his deal?’ Max gestured to Forrest Valentine as he said something to a curvy blonde woman in chef’s whites – Ariana La Marca. Max recognised her from Kingsley’s articles too.
‘Rich orphan syndrome.’ Grey didn’t look at her, but she assumed it was a reply to her question. ‘Parents, twin brother, and his aunts and uncles died two years ago in a boating accident on their way to the Galapagos Islands. Forrest survived. You would have heard about it – the Valentines are a big deal in the mining world.’
‘I’m not in the mining world.’ Barely been in the actual world.
Of course Forrest Valentine’s parents’ death made the headlines. Rich people were mourned differently. But the world didn’t care when a nurse and an electrician died. Max’s parents had been the epitome of ordinary – the only thing newsworthy about them had been their deaths. But it wasn’t a double-page spread or even a soundbite on the seven o’clock news – theirs wasn’t even the only collision on Toodyay Road that month. The story in the West Australian had been two inches long, Max had measured it. No picture, and a spelling mistake on the third line.
But she supposed it wasn’t Forrest’s fault his parents had been as rich as the Barbaranis and La Marcas. He wasn’t exactly lying back, making snow angels in his pile of inheritance gold, was he? Instead, he was wearing a black La Marca Winery apron, taking orders from his chef girlfriend.
True to his word, Raphael had conjured up a small table by the window looking out onto the La Marca vineyard, a sliver of cobalt blue ocean sparkling in the distance. He helped Max into her seat like she was a feeble old woman with dementia, but she didn’t protest. Grey just glared at everything. Even the water jug.
Raphael bowed out, winking at Max, saying he would send a waiter to take their order. Grey had obviously decided the water jug could be trusted because he reached over to pour some into their glasses. As he leant towards her, he trapped her gaze. She moved closer.
‘Skinner’s here,’ he whispered.