Chapter 19
VALENTINA
It’s been quiet in my hospital room since the doctor left.
I’m comforted by the fact that my blood tests and vitals didn’t raise any red flags.
A nurse took care of my scrapes, and there’s nothing for me to worry about.
A nauseating sensation lingers in the back of my throat, however.
I blame it on the stress of what I survived, and I wonder when Luca will return.
I replay the carnage in my head, one bloody scene at a time.
“Mrs. Petrucci,” a man says as he walks into the room.
One look, and I already know who he is. The cheap suit, the traces of nicotine on his fingers, and the tired eyes, along with a stern face and the badge on his belt, all scream police detective.
“Yes,” I reply, sitting up.
“Detective Ethan Reece,” he says as he moves closer. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug. “I’m fine, Detective. Where is my husband? When can I go home? My son needs me.”
“We’re doing everything we can to get you home as quickly as possible, I promise. Mr. Petrucci is outside, talking to my colleagues. I just need to get your statement.”
“I already gave my statement to the uniformed police officers earlier.”
“Right,” he smiles subtly. “I have a few follow-up questions.”
He’s young. Maybe in his early thirties, at most. Judging by the slight accent, I’m guessing he was raised in Canaryville.
The Irish pronounce certain words differently.
He strikes me as the ambitious type, having gotten his detective badge at such a young age and so early in his career.
But he seems warm and comforting—almost. I’ll bet he’s the “good cop” during interrogations, which makes me think that Luca is dealing with his “bad cop” colleague outside.
“Ask away,” I say, trying to remember exactly what I told the other police officers.
Part of being a good mob wife is sticking to your story, no matter what, and knowing when to stop speaking and call your attorney. So far, the police haven’t given me reason to worry. Luca and I were likely targeted tonight. That much I know. And it wasn’t just us either.
“Did you recognize any of the assailants?” Detective Reece asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Did your husband recognize any of them?”
“From what I could tell, no. He was too busy protecting me.”
“And your security detail?”
“Didn’t you talk to them, as well?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He smiles again. It has a cunning tinge to it that troubles me. It’s as if he knows more than he’s letting on, though it shouldn’t surprise me. If the city’s underworld knows all about the feud between the Petruccis and the Mancusos, then so do the police.
“I’m just hoping to find something, a name, anything that could point me in the right direction,” Reece says.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help, but the truth is, we were there in support of Mr. Gamberetti’s charity event. Wining and dining, chatting, writing checks, that sort of thing.”
“Off the top of your head, can you think of anyone who might’ve had the resources and the determination to organize the attack?” Reece asks. “You’re a Petrucci. Surely, you know folks in and around your husband’s organization.”
I gaze at him, an eyebrow lifted. “It was a charity event. My husband runs a number of successful businesses under the same conglomerate’s umbrella. I’m not sure what you’re implying here, Detective.”
“And what about your stepfather, Mauro Mancuso? Maybe he had a bone to pick with someone at the party.”
The detective is like a dog with a bone, and I need to shore up my defenses.
I shake my head again. “I have no idea. But my stepfather and my stepsister were also present at the event. They were fired upon, too,” I say.
“I hardly think anyone who masterminded the attack would put themselves in the crossfire like that.”
“And you know the victims.”
“Yes. All are either my husband’s business partners or family friends. We all know each other in our community, Detective.”
Reece nods slowly, taking notes on his pad. “Yours was an arranged marriage, if I’m not mistaken.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
My cheeks burn. I feel like I’m being probed. He’s trying to peek behind the curtain, though I’m not sure he fully understands the risk of sticking his nose into any Camorra family’s business. Maybe that’s what got him promoted to detective so early in his career. He’s curious. He takes risks.
Or maybe he just knows when and whom to ask these questions.
“I’m trying to get a better understanding of the current landscape in your ‘community,’” Reece says.
“I know your son’s father was the late Stefano Petrucci, and I know Luca Petrucci tracked you down and brought you back into the fold.
I also know Mauro Mancuso has been unfortunate enough to be left without an heir, and that you refused to take the Mancuso name when he offered to adopt you as a teenager. ”
“You know a lot,” I say with a raised eyebrow.
Reece laughs lightly. “It’s my job to know, ma’am.”
“With regards to tonight’s attack, however, I fear you might know more than me.”
“I’m not so sure. You and your husband were among the intended targets.”
The thought chills me to the bone and genuinely frightens me. “What makes you say that, Detective?”
“Your position in the ballroom compared to the preliminary analysis of the bullet trajectories. There were many bullets fired tonight, but a good portion of them happened to be directed at your general vicinity. And most of the people who were hit were also partners and friends of the Petruccis.”
“Then you definitely know more than me, because my husband and I never even had a moment to consider the possibility,” I quickly shut down this avenue of interrogation, because this is an interrogation dressed up as civilized conversation.
“We were just sipping champagne, talking, and enjoying the music when those men came in and started shooting. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground, my husband shielding me, while our security detail, along with others in the ballroom, did everything in their power to stop the carnage.”
“Your husband fired a few shots of his own, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’m not sure. It’s all a haze,” I mutter.
“If you remember anything else, if you ever just want to talk about… well, anything pertaining to the investigation or your family or anything at all,” Reece says as he hands me his business card, “my personal cell number is written on the back. Call me at any hour, it doesn’t matter.
I’ll always be on the other end of the line. ”
I frown curiously. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you almost got away from the life, Mrs. Petrucci. Calumet City was good, wasn’t it?” he replies, the corner of his mouth twisting upward in a knowing smirk. “Maybe someday, you’ll want to try again. And when you do, I’ll be more than happy to facilitate that.”
Staring at the card, I don’t know what to make of his gesture.
He could be genuinely offering to help, but said help would come with a cost. Reece would require inside knowledge about the families in exchange for my extraction.
He could be trying a ruse, too, perhaps hoping to rope me in as an informant.
I can’t trust this man, but I slip the card into my purse, nonetheless.
Luca walks in with a scowl on his face. He doesn’t hide his irritation upon seeing Detective Reece either. I’m surprised by the relief coursing through me in light of his return. I’m safe again, oddly enough.
“What are you doing here?” he asks Reece.
“Just asking your wife a couple of questions,” the detective replies.
Reece’s shoulders are squared, but I don’t detect tension. He is remarkably calm as he stands before my husband. He does not intimidate him, which begs the question: How much of Reece’s courage is real and how much borders on recklessness?
“I told you to wait until I could be in the room with her,” Luca says. “Your partner worked hard to keep me away, it seems.” He pauses, then gives me a worried look. “Are you okay, Valentina?”
“Yes,” I reply with a soft smile. “I’m good. I promise.”
“Are we done here?” Luca asks Reece.
The detective nods politely. “For the time being, yes. But my colleagues and I will be in touch with more follow-up questions, depending on where the investigation leads us.”
“You do that. But in the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you would leave. My wife needs some rest and quiet, and I would like to take her home.”
“Of course,” Reece replies. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Luca’s eyes follow the detective as he walks past him and leaves the room. The door closes behind him, and a thickness fills the space between us as Luca’s gaze shifts back to me.
“Valentina,” Luca says and comes closer, cupping my face with his hands. “How are you holding up?”
“I told you, I’m fine,” I gently reply.
He doesn’t believe me. “Tell the truth.”
“Well, I was scared out of my mind, obviously,” I chuckle slightly. “And I’m tired.”
He wraps his arms around me, covering me with his darkness and his strength. For a moment, I allow myself an escape from this mortal plane, finding refuge in my husband’s embrace. Everything stills for a moment. I can almost hear my own thoughts. The anxiety swirling beneath the surface.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” Luca promises, his voice low, almost deadly, as he utters that promise. “And when I find out who’s responsible, they won’t live to see another day.”
“You make me feel safe.”
The words come out without much thought. Luca seems surprised by them, too, as he gazes at me with wonder for a moment.
“Despite everything that happened?” Luca asks.
I nod slowly. “I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you. Michael would grow up without his mother and…”
My voice breaks. Luca captures my mouth in a tender kiss. It feels different, intense and intimate at the same time.
“We have the surviving shooter,” he tells me. “The cops didn’t get a chance to see him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I will find out who tried to hurt us. I’ll end this.”
I believe him. I was raised in the life, and I never felt like I could survive any of it on my own.
With Luca, it almost seems possible.