7. Chapter 7
Vito Calvino’s glare could have shattered marble as he watched his daughter cross the courthouse lobby, pushing the old biddy’s wheelchair.
Mia leaned down, whispering to the frail, old woman, her hand protectively on Evangeline’s shoulder, as if the old bitch were some sort of rare treasure to be guarded instead of the stubborn thorn in his side she’d always been.
Evangeline was going to pay for this betrayal.
He stopped short, jaw grinding so hard his molars ached.
No. Not yet. He couldn’t kill her, even though the thought made his fingers twitch with longing.
Unfortunately, Evangeline’s will was ironclad.
If Evangeline dropped dead, every cent, every property, every scrap of her empire would pass directly into Mia’s hands.
His idiot daughter would be rich beyond measure while he—her father—would be left with nothing but his fury.
If he’d gained control of her health decisions, he would have put her back into that damn nursing home and kept her so drugged up that he could have drafted a new will, one that left everything to him. The stupid old lady wouldn’t even have noticed.
This defeat burned like acid in his gut. He’d just lost the case. Lost her millions. Lost face.
He needed a new plan.
And how the hell had his daughter gotten back into the country?
Yeah, he’d been aware of her slipping in, but that shouldn’t have happened.
He’d paid several people a lot of money to give a head’s up if her passport was ever scanned.
She’d vanished for years, hiding in Europe like some spoiled princess.
Ever since she’d slipped out of his control years ago, when she’d claimed to be heading off to college.
His lip curled. Mia had convinced him to send her, saying it would make her a better wife, someone who wouldn’t embarrass her future husband or the organization’s future. He’d been stupid enough to agree.
At the time, he’d been just a capo under Enrico Bianchi’s control.
Not just any capo—he’d been the consigliere, the only one trusted with strategy.
Or so he’d thought. But Enrico had been too paranoid, too cagey, to let anyone stay that close.
Matteo Caruso had seen to that, blocking everyone else, whispering in Enrico’s ear like the ambitious son of a bitch he was.
Too bad Caruso had landed toes up in one of Enrico’s area rugs.
Vito chuckled darkly at the memory, the sound startling a passing court clerk who gave him a wide berth.
He ignored her. He could still picture his old boss in handcuffs and ankle shackles, shuffling inexorably toward a prison van.
Yet even then, Vito hadn’t written him off completely.
He’d kept Enrico’s commissary account fat, sent gifts every so often.
The man might be locked up, but he wasn’t finished.
Not Enrico. That wily bastard would find a way back out; evidence overturned or maybe witnesses disappearing.
Stranger things had happened with the right palms greased.
Outside, the bright slap of Minnesota sunshine only made his temper boil hotter. He paused on the top step, his fists curling, watching with building fury as Mia bent to tuck Evangeline into the passenger seat of a thoroughly beat-up sedan.
His jaw flexed. My daughter. The daughter of the Minneapolis boss was driving a rust bucket.
He almost barked for his men to deliver her a proper car—something sleek, black, gleaming. Something that told the world she belonged to him. But then Mia laughed at something her grandmother said, her head tossed back. She ignored him completely. Didn’t even spare a glance his way.
If she were a good daughter, she’d have come home the moment she landed on American soil. Hell, she should never have left. And now, instead of obedience, he got this. Her defiance was a knife in his pride, an insult carved across his authority.
The insult was intolerable.
But he still needed control of Evangeline’s money.
The woman’s mansion alone was worth millions.
Even when he’d been married to Mia’s mother, Vito had only ever been allowed to lurk on the ground floor, like a guest. The second floor, the twisting staircase and whatever secrets were hidden around the house had been locked away from him.
He gritted his teeth, staring across the street.
Wouldn’t it be poetic justice if the old witch’s wheelchair “slipped” one day, tumbling down those stairs with her strapped in?
Her brittle bones would snap like kindling.
His chest heaved, but Vito forced the thought back down. Not yet. Not now. Not until he had a new will in place that gave all of her millions to him.
Evangaline should have stayed in that damn nursing home. That had been the plan. What the hell had gone wrong?
He growled and stormed down the courthouse steps. His SUV waited at the curb, black and polished, its engine purring like a patient beast. Two bodyguards stood sentry, scanning the street, while the driver sat ready at the wheel. The moment he neared, one guard opened the rear door.
Vito climbed in, his rage too big for the confines of the leather interior. He yanked the seatbelt across his chest with such force the buckle clanged against the door.
“Take me to the nursing home,” he barked, his voice sharp enough to make the driver flinch. “I want to know how Evangeline even got this case to court. It should have been a slam dunk. A slam dunk that I was assigned as her guardian and conservator.”
His hands curled against his knees, knuckles white, impotent fury boiling through his blood.
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.