Chapter Seven
Raya
TWO WEEKS LATER
IT’S SUNDAY AFTERNOON AND Lorenzo has me planted in his game room, reviewing surveillance.
Clearly, he doesn’t believe in rest days.
He’s a man on a mission, determined to ferret out the disloyal turncoats.
But for the past hour, his focus has shifted, hijacked by the secret surveillance feed on his phone. The one he doesn’t know I know about.
By now, I’ve figured out that whenever he pulls up that feed, it does one of two things—puts him in a freakishly good mood, or drop-kicks his temper straight into the gutter.
Lorenzo Castello’s daily mood ranges between don’t give a fuck and fuck you, die. Anything else outside that range is influenced by whatever he sees on that secret feed. It controls him somehow. Fuels both his contentment and his rage.
Cora comes in and sets a serving tray in front of me, laden with grilled chicken sandwich, a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade, and a side of sliced mangoes.
“Thanks so much, Cora. You’re the best.”
She warmly cups my cheek before turning to leave.
Lorenzo stops her. “Why do the snacks and drinks only come out when Raya’s here? You never bring me shit.”
Cora tilts her head toward the ceiling, as if summoning patience from the almighty. “Would you like a grilled sandwich, Lorenzo? Something to drink?”
“Nah. I’m not—”
“That’s why.” She jabs a finger at his shoulder. “You’re picky. Never ‘in the mood’ for anything. Never touch what I put in front of you unless it’s cigars and whiskey. You eat so infrequently, I’m baffled by all those muscles.”
I take a big bite of my sandwich and give Cora a thumbs-up.
She beams, pleased.
From what I know, Cora Ricci is their first cousin once removed.
Though they simply call her “aunt.” She lost both her sons in a drug war back in Italy.
Grief and severe depression took over when her husband died months later.
After a suicide attempt, Stefano went to Italy himself to bring her here and got her the help she needed.
But after observing her these past few weeks, it’s become clear she tries to fill the void by mothering Lorenzo, Gio, and Stefano, using them as stand-ins for the men she lost. While steadfastly refusing to speak a lick of English.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that appreciation is her love language. She thrives on praise, on being needed, on having her efforts recognized.
Too bad Lorenzo is about as warm and appreciative as a floating iceberg.
“Whatever,” he mutters, waving her off.
Cora clucks her tongue and walks out.
Around a mouthful of sandwich, I ask, “So, why aren’t you at Mass?”
Gio and Stefano supposedly left for it hours ago.
Distractedly, he replies, “Because I know, accept, and am comfortable with the fact that I’m beyond saving.”
Efficient. Why waste time faking it, right?
His jaw clenches as he glares at the screen.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Is she an ex?”
“Hmm?” he responds, still distracted.
“The woman you’re stalking.”
That gets his attention.
His gaze snaps from the screen to me. “You hacked my shit?”
“Nope.” I take another bite of my sandwich. “You’re getting better at tech now—thanks to moi—so you’ll understand soon enough that once you’re given even a smidge of access to something, that’s all you need to create a million pathways to…well, everything.
“Fortunately for you, I’m team Castellos. Plus surveillance bores me. But I do find your obsession with this particular person interesting. Data shows you’ve been stalking her for a long time.”
He slams his phone face-down on the desk. “Stay out of my business.”
“You make it hard to.” I gesture at the phone. “That feed dictates your mood.”
Licking a bit of sauce from the corner of my mouth, I press on, “So, tell me…what has you so irritated right now? Is it the Bugatti guy with the lush hair who slept over after their date last night?”
A low growl rumbles in his throat as he drops his head back and rubs his eyes. “Every day…every day she does this. Poke and poke and frustrate me to no end. Maybe I should just let my brother kill her and be done with it. Should I? I think I should.”
I stifle a giggle.
He’s right. I do poke and prod him when we’re working together. But on purpose. To pull him back from whatever edge he’s about to spiral off when that surveillance feed starts screwing with his mood.
Sometimes I do it just to test him. He has a low tolerance level, so the extent to which he puts up with me reveals how much he likes having me around. And judging by how much of my inquisitive prodding and unsolicited opinions he endures? Methinks Lorenzo Castello really likes having me around.
“You won’t,” I say. “You like me too much.”
“You pronounced tolerate wrong.”
Before I can fire back, something on the monitor catches my attention. Something I’ve been scanning for in the security footage playbacks from Liquid Blue, one of their nightclubs.
“Bingo.”
Lorenzo’s gaze flicks to me. “What is it?”
I hit pause and tap the screen. “This bartender at Liquid Blue, is she from The Pink House or Fair Cove?”
Lorenzo leans in to have a closer look. “No idea. I’ll have to check with Tazi. Why? You found something?”
“Yeah, I picked up on something a few days ago but needed more evidence. Scraped through tons of playback footage, compiled it all, and waited for last night’s footage.” I pop a slice of mango into my mouth. “And now I can safely say this bartender is up to something. And it’s not team Castellos.”
“Let me see,” he says.
“Hang on.”
I splice out the relevant clips from the current footage, add them to my compilation file, save the new version, and hit play.
Lorenzo watches, then shakes his head, nonplussed. “What am I supposed to be seeing? She’s out of frame in every shot.”
My sigh is dramatic. “Oh, young student. Must I teach you everything?”
Lorenzo’s scowl deepens right before he conks me on the forehead with his knuckles.
“Ow! Careful! There’s priceless treasure inside this skull.”
When he raises his knuckles to do it again, I throw up my hands in surrender then hit replay.
“Watch closely,” I say, slowing down the video.
“She somehow knows exactly where the cameras’ blind-spots are.
And whenever this guy comes in”—I point at a heavily tattooed man in the crowd—“she moves into that blind spot to talk to him. So, I scoured the angles of all the other cameras and found one that indirectly catches the bar, through the adjacent mirrored wall. Then I zoomed in, sharpened the quality, and…” I tap the screen. “Voilà! Now, what do you see?”
Lorenzo watches the footage again with complete focus. “Envelope pass.”
“Every Saturday. Always within the same time frame,” I say.
“And, sure, it could be nothing serious. Except for the fact that it’s always done in a blind spot.
Someone on the inside fed them information on the cameras.
” I tap the screen. “The guy does a good job hiding his face, but check out the top of that tattoo peeking out above his collar. Isn’t that part of the symbol for Skullaz motorcycle club? ”
Lorenzo frowns, leans in closer, squints, then mutters a curse. “You’re sharp as fuck. That’s the Skullaz mark alright.”
And with that, my work here is done.
Leaning back, I pick up my half-eaten sandwich and take a bite. “Over to you, boss.”
He rubs his jaw. “Our surveillance team needs an overhaul.”
“Not necessarily,” I say around a mouthful.
“There’s a difference between sitting in a security room and watching a monitor of multiple feeds with multiple angles across multiple properties, versus actively searching for something.
They are doing their jobs. I’m working under daily threats, harsh glares, and insufferable moodiness, so I have to be thorough. ”
With my pinky, I wipe a dollop of sauce from the corner of my mouth. Cora sure knows how to make a mean sandwich. “That’s why I know you won’t let your brother kill me.”
Lorenzo scoffs. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
“Correction, I’m the shit.”
Movement on the live feed in the lower left corner of the monitor catches my eye. Stefano, Gio, and a middle-aged man in a priest’s robe make their way up the sloped pathway to the house.
Stefano has been travelling for the past two weeks and only got back last night. While he’s been away, things have been a little quiet, less tense. My days spent working with Lorenzo, and my evening spent getting sweaty exercising with Gio.
“Church is over and the heathens are out.” I stretch my arms over my head. “Time to sneak me out like your dirty little secret.”
“Not yet,” he says. “Vale’s with them. They’ll head straight out the back to play chess. Wait until they’ve settled.”
“Vale? Is that the priest?”
He grunts in confirmation.
Vale Fontana is their uncle and Luca’s father. But I’m not supposed to know that.
“Hmm.” I take a drink of lemonade. “The priest and the sinners. Interesting family.”
Lorenzo ignores me, already checking in with Tazi about the bartender.
Tazi later confirms the woman is from Fair Cove, not The Pink House.
Fair Cove is a Castello-owned apartment complex downtown that houses their expatriate employees. Unlike The Pink House girls, Fair Cove residents are just workers on permits. Paying tenants. No tight restrictions, no constant oversight.
Which makes the bartender’s actions strange. She could meet up with whoever, wherever, whenever outside of working hours. There’s no need for her to sneak around inside a Castello-owned operation.
So, why risk it?
Thirty minutes later, Lorenzo pushes back from his desk. “I’m gonna head out back and keep him distracted. Wait a few minutes, then go.”
Thank hell. I’m itching to get out of here and get in some movement before my brain fries. All this sitting around, staring at a screen, hasn’t been good for my brain or my gains.
I’m a hyper-learner. A doer. Easily bored, always adapting, always on the prowl for something new to sink my teeth into.