23. Dante
Dante
I recline in my desk chair, a glass of scotch dangling from my hand. Following the bombshell Sara dropped, I retreated to the relative safety of my study. While Leo does some digging based on this new information, I’m stuck in my head, wading through memories.
Dulce Argento, nee Conti, would be fifty-five if she were still alive.
She was murdered three months after my tenth birthday and only days after Marco’s birthday, and I never had a chance to say goodbye.
During her life, she found solace in baking, and the kitchen often served as her sanctuary.
All my best memories as a child involve gathering around our old, scarred kitchen table, helping Mamma put the finishing touches on the sfogliatelle or bombolini.
That night began as usual, with us watching our mother set out the ingredients for Marco’s birthday tiramisu. When she realized she didn’t have enough mascarpone, she grabbed her purse and promised us she’d be back in a few minutes.
Minutes became hours, and hours turned into a lifetime.
Mamma was the first person this world ever took from me, but certainly not the last.
I toss back a healthy swig of scotch, relishing the slight burn as the liquid travels down my esophagus. Unfortunately, no answers await me at the bottom of a liquor bottle. If that were the case, I would have solved the mystery of my mother’s death long ago.
Or if not me, then Marco. My brother never met a drink he didn’t like, at least not in recent years.
My mind spins through history in yet another futile attempt to piece together what happened.
My parents met after Giovanni Argento snuck into a Conti party against his father’s direct orders.
The Argentos and the Contis have been feuding for years.
No one knows how the animosity started, just that it’s as virulent now as always.
A conflict exacerbated by Dulce Conti eloping with Papà and never looking back.
To this day, I still don’t know why she died.
Marco was seven at the time. If the Contis wanted revenge for her marriage to their enemy’s son, they would have acted sooner.
After she was gone, my father had plenty of time to investigate her murder or bring the case before the Council, but for some reason, he never did.
Deep down, I never forgave him. Not for that, or for the way he allowed love to dictate every aspect of his life.
When that love was stolen from him, he fell apart, both as the don of our family and as a father.
It’s why I always avoid visiting her grave with him, no matter how many times he asks.
How can I pay my respects with the man who permitted her death to go unavenged standing by my side?
I pick up my phone and hit his contact, only to get sent straight to voicemail. Figures. Even if he did answer, he probably wouldn’t have any information to share. My father’s always been frustratingly tight-lipped when it comes to my mother.
I leave a message requesting that he call me back and then return to my brooding.
An hour later, Luca gives me the name he extracted from Jackson, and my brain nearly explodes.
Enzo Conti. Aka, the Ghost.
One of the men who kidnapped and tortured me for months. The ringleader.
The man I’ve hunted for the last five years.
Downing the rest of my scotch, I rise from the chair and begin pacing.
Possibly by design, the Conti side of my family remains a mystery to me.
Before my mother’s murder, I gathered information through snippets of muffled conversations.
The hushed tones, caught behind closed doors, always faded to silence the moment I entered a room.
As little more than a child, I wasn’t yet privy to the true nature of the role I’d eventually need to fulfill, but even then I possessed a curious mind.
Too curious, sometimes, for my own good.
I knew my mother was adopted as a baby, brought into the family after the death of a Conti right-hand man, and raised alongside the Conti brothers and heirs, Enzo and Aldo.
That history was never a secret. Not like her family.
Anytime Marco or I would ask about Nonno or Nonna on our mother’s side, the questions were swiftly redirected.
Eventually we stopped asking, but I never stopped wondering.
Sometimes, when I had a nightmare, I would pad down the hall to my parents’ room.
My father, who could sleep through an EF5 tornado, would snore like a buzz saw, but my mother was often awake, her bedside lamp casting a warm glow over her favorite green silk robe.
A book frequently sat in her lap. An old leather-bound thing with yellowing, crinkled pages filled with handwritten notes and drawings.
I would watch Mamma thumb through it with sad eyes. If she ever glimpsed me at the door, she’d squirrel the book away and open her arms to soothe my terrors.
Of course, I grew curious about this mysterious book, so one day, after my mother left for an appointment, I snuck into her bedroom.
The book, stuffed under her pillow as if she couldn’t bear to be separated from it, wasn’t difficult to locate.
When I opened the cover, the first thing I saw was a photo.
Even with creased edges and faded color, I recognized my mother’s smile in the old, glossy snapshot.
With Coney Island as a backdrop, she stood between two young men.
One was broad-shouldered, muscled, and clean-shaven.
His cruel smile was a stark contrast to Mamma’s.
On her other side hovered a taller man with unkempt dark hair curling around his shoulders, his lips pressed into a flat line like he never smiled.
A traditional-style dragon tattoo covered his forearm, ending just above a hand missing three fingers.
Those men were her brothers, Aldo and Enzo Conti.
I knew better than to ask why she always looked at the photo when she thought no one was watching, to ask if she missed her brothers and other relatives. I loved my mother deeply and didn’t want to make her eyes even sadder than they already were when she held that book.
But one night, long after Mamma tucked me into bed, I heard soft, muffled crying coming from the kitchen. I crept downstairs to the darkened hallway and eavesdropped on my father speaking in that gentle tone he reserved just for her.
He told her Enzo Conti had died.
After abandoning the Contis to marry an Argento, my mother lost touch with her brothers, but I could tell by her voice that the news of his death devastated her.
Not long after that, someone murdered my mother, squashing any lingering questions I had about my would-be uncle under the weight of our personal tragedy and Papà’s withdrawal.
And now, to learn the Ghost was Enzo Conti the whole time? My mother’s kin?
I want to tear the world apart, smash my hand through a fucking wall, anything to expel the hatred strangling my throat. But no matter how much rage courses through my system, I’ve got to keep my head on straight.
If Enzo didn’t actually die while I was still in grade school, then where has he been all these years? What coaxed him out of hiding to kidnap and torture me? And why would he do that to his own nephew?
I’m heading toward the clinic when someone knocks on the doorway.
“I was just coming to look for you. The patient you transferred to us had some internal bleeding we didn’t catch in time. We tried a transfusion, but he didn’t make it.”
I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts that I don’t bother looking up. He mentions a few of the life-saving efforts used as if he memorized a list, but I tune him out. I don’t care about the details. Jackson already gave me what I needed most. A name.
Now I just have to get my hands on Enzo fucking Conti.
I check my calendar and grin when I spot the event listed on today’s date. The universe must be smiling upon me, because nothing else explains this stroke of good luck.
Time for Plan B.
I stalk the corridors until I find Luca outside the door leading to his quarters. His hair is damp, and he’s wearing a fresh shirt. Probably got too much blood on the old one. A regrettable hazard of torture.
“What’s up, Boss?”
“Get Trent on the phone. I have an idea.”
Every year, the Contis host a benefit at the Cosmopolitan Museum of Art, the largest gallery in a city that attracts patrons from all over the world.
The gala is black-tie and formal. More importantly, it’s invite-only.
Considering the feud between our families still runs strong, no Argento would ever snag a spot on that guest list.
Fortunately for me, one of my SilverTech employees, Trent—a twenty-two-year-old skater with purple tips—is a hell of a hacker.
An hour after Luca calls, Sara’s name is on the guest list.