32. Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Two
Donna
The strategy meeting in Mario’s study lasts long enough that when Mario finally closes the folder in front of him, I have reached the point where I never want to hear Marcello Greco’s name again.
Unfortunately, I doubt I’m going to get my wish anytime soon.
We have gone over every single inch of this plan for what feels like forever.
In true Conti fashion, everybody spoke, but unlike conversation at dinner, nobody spoke over each other.
Everyone offered their own objections, spotting weak points, and arguing over contingencies whenever one of them thought somebody else had overlooked something.
It has been thorough.
Exhaustingly thorough.
And I appreciate every second of it.
Nobody has treated me as though I need to be protected from the details because I’m the one taking the risk.
Nobody has nodded politely at my suggestions and then waited for the men to decide what happens.
When I pushed back, they listened. When I pointed out a problem, we worked through it.
When I refused a precaution because I thought it would make the whole thing too obvious, Lorenzo scowled at me, argued his case, I argued mine, and eventually, we came to a compromise.
Just as we agreed.
But all is finally said and done, and we have a solid plan.
Mario leans back in his chair and looks around the crowded room. “Everyone understands where we stand?”
A chorus of agreement follows from different directions.
“Good. Then we leave it there tonight.”
Nobody immediately moves.
Apparently even a Conti meeting has a decompression period.
Tomasso stretches his legs out in front of him while Matteo checks something on his phone. Diego reaches for the coffee that is likely cold by now. The face he makes when he sips it confirms that.
Lorenzo, sitting beside me, shifts his hand onto my knee and gives it a light squeeze.
I glance at him.
He was quieter during the final part of the meeting, which I know does not mean he has suddenly become comfortable with any of this. If anything, the more concrete the plan became, the more I could practically feel his unease beside me.
But he never tried to take over.
That matters.
I cover his hand briefly with mine.
His eyes meet mine.
You okay?
He does not say it, but I hear it anyway.
I give him the smallest nod.
For now, that is enough.
Chairs begin scraping against the floor as everyone finally starts moving.
Mario and Ricardo continue talking quietly, while Diego catches Dante before he reaches the door and pulls him into a separate conversation.
Matteo and Tomasso leave together, still disagreeing about something that apparently survived the strategy meeting, and Edoardo follows them into the hall.
Alessio stays behind.
I notice because he is standing near the bookshelves instead of leaving with everyone else, his attention on me while I gather my notes and slide them back into my bag.
Lorenzo notices too.
His gaze moves from his son to me.
“I should go find Mocha,” I tell him.
“I believe you are needed here,” he says quietly.
“Oh,” I say, unsure what else to say.
Lorenzo kisses my temple before heading toward the door, but his hand brushes the small of my back on the way past.
I watch him leave before turning back to Alessio.
He waits until the door closes, then his expression changes. The easy amusement disappears, and suddenly I understand why he stayed behind.
“I know I’ve thanked you before,” he says.
I lean against the edge of one of the chairs. “You have.”
He glances down briefly, then rubs the back of his neck.
For someone who has spent the evening arguing freely with half his family, he looks remarkably uncomfortable now.
“I wanted to do it again.”
“Alessio—”
“Just let me say it.” He exhales through his nose and looks at me again. “If you hadn’t found Rachel, I don’t know where I’d be right now.”
The answer is obvious enough that neither of us needs to say it.
His arrest feels strangely distant now, even though it has not been that long. The hotel footage, the timeline, the certainty with which the police had begun building their case around him—all of it was designed to put him exactly where Marcello wanted him.
“You were innocent,” I say.
“I know, but innocent people get convicted.”
There is no self-pity in the statement.
“You figured out what happened before anyone else did,” he continues. “You found Rachel, and you gave me my life back. Look, I know—”
He looks away for a moment, then back at me. “I know, realistically, that my father wouldn't have let me end up where Angelo Greco did. He is not Marcello. He is not powerless. But even so, I'm a free man because of you.”
I clear my throat, also uncomfortable. “I was just doing my job.”
“This part isn’t your job anymore.” He holds my gaze.
Technically, it still is. The second investigation became a job the moment his family hired me again.
But that is not what he means.
“You’re putting yourself in the middle of something Marcello started because of me,” he says. “I know he’s after my father, but I was how he planned to do it. And now you’re the one he’s paying attention to.”
“That part is on Marcello.”
“I know.”
“Then stop trying to carry it.”
His jaw clenches.
That expression is so much like Lorenzo that for a second I almost smile.
“He broke into my office,” I remind him. “He had someone go through my home. Marcello made himself my problem when he did that. Whatever happens from here on out is because of his choices, not yours.”
Alessio studies me.
“You really believe that?”
“Yes.”
“About my father too?”
There it is.
I understand immediately what he is asking. Do I blame Lorenzo, the way Marcello blames him, for what's happening now?
I straighten. “Marcello's choices are his own,” I say clearly. “And Angelo's choices were his own.”
Some of the tension leaves his face, and he nods.
I tilt my head. “Does Lorenzo know you’re worried about that?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then we’d have to have a conversation about feelings, and we’d both hate that.”
I snort. “Heaven forbid.”
“Exactly.”
“You Conti men are exhausting.”
“You seem pretty fond of us.”
I shrug. “I always thought I had good judgment. I guess I was wrong.”
He grins, and that charm peeks through again. Then he surprises me by stepping forward and pulling me into a hug.
It lasts only a few seconds, but there is nothing awkward or hesitant about it once he commits.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
I hug him back. “You’re welcome.”
When he releases me, I point toward the door.
“And if you get emotional about this later, I will deny it happened.”
“Same.”
“Good.”
He starts toward the hall, then pauses. “Also, I’m serious about visitation with Mocha.”
I laugh. “Get out.”
“That sounds like a maybe.”
“It isn’t.”
He leaves smiling.
I stay behind for a moment, soaking in the quiet.
That conversation affected me more than I expected.
I have solved cases before. Helped people before. There were victims who hugged me, families who cried when we gave them answers, people who thanked me because something I did mattered to them.
This feels different.
Maybe because Alessio was the first case that was entirely mine after the FBI.
Nobody standing over my shoulder. Nobody waiting to take credit if it went well or find somewhere to put the blame if it didn’t.
Just me.
I trusted what I saw, followed what did not make sense, and found the truth.
And it worked.
I feel a little surge of pride as I push away from the chair and head into the hallway. The house is quieter now than it was during dinner, although quiet by Conti standards still involves several conversations happening simultaneously.
I find Mocha in the family room stretched across the rug with Edoardo sitting nearby. Matteo and Tomasso have claimed opposite ends of a sofa, Dante is in one of the chairs, and Diego is standing near the fireplace talking to Ricardo.
Don't these people ever sleep?
Mocha lifts his head the moment I enter. His tail thumps.
“There you are.”
He gets up and comes straight to me. I rub my hands along his neck and shoulders while he presses against my leg.
“Aw, have you been abandoned?” I tease.
Edoardo looks at me. “He has had constant attention.”
“Maybe a little too much, huh?” I ask him. “You did eat your body weight in chicken tonight. And that was after dinner.”
His tail whacks my leg as it wags.
“Yeah, you're fooling no one. I see that guilty face,” I tell him, then I look around. “Where is Lorenzo?”
“With Mario.”
I settle onto the end of the sofa to wait while Mocha drops down beside my feet. The meeting has left a strange hum under my skin—not fear exactly, but an awareness that things have shifted. Until tonight, our plan existed mostly between Lorenzo and me. Now everyone knows their part.
There is comfort in that. There's also a weight in it that wasn’t there before.
Once we start, we cannot dictate how Marcello reacts.
That has been my argument from the beginning.
We can control what we put in front of him. We can control our preparation. We can control how quickly everyone moves once he makes his choice.
His choice, however, is the variable.
I am still thinking about that when Mario appears in the doorway. His eyes find me.
“Donna, do you have a minute?”
Several heads turn.
I look around at the audience.
“Am I in trouble?”
Dante laughs.
Mario’s mouth curves slightly. “No.” He gestures toward the hall.
I stand. Mocha immediately rises too.
“Stay,” I tell him.
He doesn't like it, but he stays as I follow Mario out.
He does not take me back to the study. Instead, we stop farther down the hall where the voices from the family room become a low murmur behind us.
For a second, I wonder whether this is about the plan.
I brace myself for another concern, another precaution, another variation somebody has thought of since we left the room.
But Mario surprises me when he says, “I wanted to thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For Alessio.”
That is not what I expected.
“Did you guys coordinate this?”
A faint smile touches his face. “No.”