56. ANTONIO
A week later…
I'm in a deep sleep when my phone rings.
What asshole is calling me this early in the morning?
The name on the display shows MO—Marcello Orsi.
Fuck. I jump out of bed and make my way into the bathroom, stepping carefully over hairclips and curlers while trying not to wake Scarlet, and close the door before I bark, “Orsi.”
My mind is going into overdrive. Enrico told me that Marcello was out of the hospital, but with everything going on, I haven't had a chance to talk to him yet.
“You sound tired.” Marcello greets me, sounding like his old self. If he's not going to mention that he's out and about, I'm sure as hell not going to.
“I am." I overexaggerate a yawn. "If this is a social call, I'll have to call you back.”
He chuckles, appreciating the fact that neither one of us is the social type. “No. It’s about Donna Margarita. I found out from a very reliable source that she’s the one who wants me dead."
Now that's news worth being woken up to. Even though I have no idea why Donna Margarita would want Marcello dead, I trust him. Still, as interesting as this news is, why is he telling me?
As if he can feel my questions burning, he lets a pause grate between us, and just when I fill my lungs to give the fucker the satisfaction of my asking, he drops another bomb.
"You should also know that, according to the same source, it was Donna Margarita, not Edoardo, who ordered the hit on your dad. "
I sink down on the edge of the bathtub. What. The. Hell? Why would Donna Margarita order a hit on my father? Edoardo's motive, however weak, is there, but hers? The silence stretches.
After a moment, I demand, "I need the name of your source."
"I didn't expect anything less. Fabio Becattini. His body is on its way to be delivered to Donna Margarita."
Well fuck, this fucker is full of bombs this morning. I run a hand through my hair, digesting this newest information.
"Fuck, Marcello. You've got some balls, man. She's going to go to war with you."
"I already am with her. Let her come," he replies, unconcerned. “You ever wonder why Edoardo married Isabella when everyone knows he's in love with Helen?”
“Politics, probably. Alliances. Power,” I wager, still trying to digest the news he's thrown at me, especially trying to figure out what beef Donna Margarita could have had with my father great enough to order him killed.
“Maybe,” he admits. “But if you ask me? Margarita’s holding something over him. Maybe more than one something. I think he married Isabella to appease her, and now he’s shackled to both.”
“She’s the real threat, then.”
“Looks that way.”
Shit. Just what we need, another enemy lurking in the corner. Marcello has his hands fuller than mine, which reminds me, “What about Sophia? Any leads?” A few days ago Marcello's sister had been abducted, and her husband was brutally killed.
“No. Still missing.” I can hear the heaviness in his voice.
Shit. Having just been through the same hell with Gigi, I know how he feels.
I'm sure Marcello is close to exploding.
He keeps his cool, though. “Fabio didn't know anything about her or Roberto’s murder. I don't think they're connected. Whoever took my sister did it to send a message. They didn’t just kill Roberto; they tortured everyone in that house. That wasn’t business. That was personal.”
“You think Margarita ordered something behind Fabio's back?” I theorize. At this point, it seems everything is possible.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t fit her MO. It was too messy. Too loud.”
I move Scarlet's silk robe from the floor and place it over the tub, just to have something to do. “So where does that leave us?”
“Looking at Raffael. He’s gone off the map.
Stephano sent him to handle something in Venezuela—Edoardo’s been cozying up to the Venezuelans, trying to build new alliances since he lost control over some of the capos.
” Raffael is one of Stephano's underbosses; I have no clue why he would have anything to do with Sophia's disappearance.
Then again, it was Marcello's bodyguard who tried to assassinate him.
I'm going to have to get Vito to double-check all our men. At this point, I don’t trust anybody.
As if reading my mind, Marcello says, "Margarita got to one of my bodyguards; it's reasonable to assume she got to Raffael too."
I hate putting this on him now, but I have to know if he's still invested in our other plans. “We still going through with the plan for Carlos and Edoardo?”
“Absolutely. But we need to wait for the right opening. No mistakes.”
“Agreed.”
There is a pause before Marcello presses out, “If Sophia is hurt or…”
“I’ll help you tear the whole fucking world apart to find her,” I promise, meaning it. Nobody touches our women, and the ones who dare… We'll make examples out of them. Sending a direct message to the rest of those cowards. Our women are off limits!
“That’s why I called you.”
“Stay sharp, Orsi.”
“You too, DeLuna.”
I take a minute to digest this conversation before I return to the bedroom, where Scarlet is still sleeping.
A never-before-experienced peace overcomes me when I walk in.
I would have never thought it possible that one person could bring me this much happiness.
But she does, every day, every hour. And soon, she'll be fully my wife in the eyes of the world.
Part of Gigi's penance is to make reservations for accommodations at a private island resort in the Maldives for Scarlet and my wedding and honeymoon. We will enjoy it the day after Carlos takes his last breath on this Earth.
I suspect Gigi is enjoying her punishment a little bit too much, but I'm too fucking happy to extend it. She, too, has a right to be happy, and so does Vito, who has formally asked me for my sister's hand in marriage.
One of the two obstacles to ensuring our Jellybean ’s safety is about to be handled. Carlos' trial is at an end. We are so fucking close.
The jurors are in deliberation. My men managed to get word to the four compromised jurors and, for good measure, the alternate juror—the woman who replaced the murdered one.
For days, the word “ mistrial” floated through the press, but Lambert held firm. He knows what's at stake. He went in front of the cameras, spoke about heroes, justice, and American determination, pushed the right buttons, and the trial continued, along with the investigation into the murder.
Meanwhile, Vito caught Frederico Manisol, the fucker who killed the juror. It took a few hours of convincing—bone-crunching, blood-soaked convincing—but eventually, he admitted what I already knew.
Yes, he was working for Carlos.
Yes, he killed the juror as a message to the others.
No, his body will never be found. There won't be any investigation into his death.
Carlos is back in his holding cell. The judge and the jury aren't the only ones sequestered, and I'm really hoping he's starting to feel the noose tightening around his fucking neck. Losing his second in command was a crippling blow, the last nail in his coffin, and he knows it.
A few hours later, Vito knocks on my office door. "The verdict is in."
I turn on the TV and call Scarlet; she deserves to watch his fall as much as we do.
Soon, Igio joins us, and we all stand around the large screen showing the courtroom, courtesy of Alain, the security guard, who is, in fact, an outstanding cameraman.
His little spy camera gives us a perfect view.
Perfect enough to make out Marcello sitting among the spectators, typing on his phone.
Not many people can boast of surviving a gunshot to their head, but if anybody can pull it off, it's Marcello. From what I heard, there were two more attempts made on his life while he was in the hospital, both stopped by the same little nurse I watched in his room a few weeks ago. There’s something there, something interesting . But that’s a thought for another time.
The air in my office fills with tension as we watch the courtroom fill.
Carlos looks smug, standing next to his lawyer.
The absence of fear on his self-satisfied, smug-ass face makes me wonder…
Does he really not understand what’s coming?
Does he not realize the consequences of Nestor’s death?
Or is he too full of himself to recognize that his empire is crumbling beneath his feet?
If he thinks his men will stay loyal with him locked up and Marcello taking over… he’s a bigger idiot than I thought.
Scarlet puts her arms around my hip and leans into me. Automatically, my hand drops to her back. I like having her close to me. We watch the jurors take their seats, and Lambert gives a quick speech, nearly costing me the last of my patience.
"Come on," Igio hisses.
Vito elbows him. "Shut up."
Lambert accepts the sealed envelope from his clerk. With a solemn face, he opens and reads it without giving anything away, then hands it back to the jury speaker.
"On the counts of extortion, how does the jury find the defendant?" Lambert asks.
Carlos leans over and whispers something to his lawyer, who chuckles. My hands ball into fists. This is it.
"Guilty." The juror says.
"Fuck yes!" Igio screams, pumping his fist in the air. "Sorry, boss."
My eyes are locked on Carlos. I'm memorizing every shift in his expression, starting with the first frown, the one that happens as he probably thinks he misheard.
"On the count of racketeering, how does the jury find the defendant?"
"Guilty."
Carlos's gaze snaps from the jurors to Lambert; the message is clear: send me to prison and die. Scarlet stiffens.
"It's okay. I have men waiting for your dad to take him to safety as soon as court adjourns," I assure her.
Carlos grows visibly angrier; his body goes rigid. It’s beautiful. It’s balm to my soul. And then he snaps, "You dirty son of a bitch!"
He lunges against the desk in front of him, ignoring his lawyer, who is trying to pull him back as he attempts to get around the obstacle. Security guards rush forward; Lambert is pounding his gravel.
"You're dead, you hear? DEAD!" Carlos screams while security guards muscle his arms behind his back and secure a pair of handcuffs.
Scarlet's hands around me tighten, and my hand draws soothing circles up and down her back. This is the moment I've been waiting for. Carlos is exactly where I want him.
"Quiet down, or I will have you muzzled," Judge Lambert's voice sounds out over the ruckus.
Soon, Dad, I promise. Soon, he'll join you, and you can have your own revenge , I whisper, still staring at a furious Carlos. A few drops of sweat make their way down his bulging neck. His chest heaves, rises, and falls violently with every heavy breath he takes. A sense of vengeance and victory sears through me when I see the moment the truth sinks in. The moment it hits him that this is real. Alain’s camera leans in, giving me the perfect view.
Pure, unfiltered terror hits Carlos—rightfully fucking placed. I will ensure that the last few weeks of his life before Lambert announces his sentence will be filled with terror and fear.
"Thank you," Judge Lambert turns to the jury. "I will announce the sentence in three weeks."
He says a few more words to the jurors, thanking them for their service, blablabla , but I tune it all out, just reveling in the knowledge that my father will finally get his justice.