Chapter 7 #2
“There’s my uncle, who hates you for cutting off his hand, while he also hates me for marrying you the enemy,” Enzo said, counting off the suspects. “Too cowardly to plan a hit on his own, but cowardly enough to stay silent about an attempted assassination he knew was coming.”
“Cousin Frankie, who wants to be second in command over me,” I said, finally voicing what I’d long known about my cousin. Francesco and I were on good terms, but I wasn’t a fool. I knew that every man in the Romano family had wanted to usurp me and snatch my father’s crown.
“So, both of them have motives. Revenge on my uncle’s part and lust for power when it comes to your cousin.”
“Your valet, McClain’s, motive?” I asked.
“That I can’t figure out yet,” Enzo answered with a shook of his head. “But I fucking will.”
“He might not be guilty,” I reminded him softly. As much as I wanted to pin the shooting in the De Luca side, it was clear that the thought of betrayal was getting to Enzo.
“It’s best to get you home until I can rule him out.” Enzo got to his feet.
“But doesn’t that leave you in danger?” I asked.
Enzo’s face turned even more serious. It was clear that he hadn’t considered his own safety in all of this. Maybe he thought he was invincible. Maybe he was so concerned with me, that he forgot about himself. Knowing him, it was likely to be both.
Strange that I hadn’t known him long, but I was now able to guess some of what he was thinking. I tried to tell myself it was because I had been clever enough to read him, but it was just as likely that I could read him better because we had gotten close in such a short time.
“If I change security or ban McClain from the building, he’ll know I’m on to him,” Enzo explained, reaching out a hand to me. “It’s safer to let him work on wedding stuff like I instructed.”
So, this McClain had been working out wedding details on the De Luca end. That was probably the best task for him if he was going to be under a cloud of suspicion. The valet was less likely to be a danger to us while he had to focus on tasks like planning the wedding.
I gave a nod in agreement, then held on to his large, outstretched hand as he guided me to my feet. “Home it is then.”
~~*~~
WHILE PACKING UP MY belongings in the guestroom, I called my chauffeur, who had been dutifully waiting downstairs since last night’s chaos. When he answered, I informed him that I was ready to go home.
Then, I slipped back into the coat I’d borrowed from my mother. Wearing Enzo’s giant clothes might have been comfortable and convenient, but I looked ridiculous in them. The coat would hide the oversized shirt and shorts, making me look like I was in command.
After I packed and got the coat on, I met up with Enzo in the living room. He had some kind of remote in his hand that when pressed, made the entire apartment’s digital infrastructure beep and whir at the same time. Looked like the apartment was on lockdown.
I followed Enzo out of the apartment, heading downstairs to the front entrance.
We stepped outside and headed to the parking lot, where my car was parked. The chauffeur stepped out and Enzo gave what sounded like a derisive snort.
No doubt he thought that relying on a chauffeur proved that I was a pampered princess.
And maybe he was right. Because while the chauffeur could take some time off for himself whenever he needed, he was essentially on duty twenty-four hours a day.
A new hire in the aftermath of the car bombing against my dad a year ago.
A chauffeur would be able to watch the car at all times, plus he acted as security.
As Enzo approached the car, the chauffeur stepped forward and they were suddenly competing to open the passenger door for me. In the end, Enzo won. He got the door open for me, took my hand, and helped me slip into the backseat with a practiced ease on his part. My chauffeur scowled at Enzo.
No doubt, the chauffeur hated being shown up, especially by one of our greatest enemies. But neither of them said anything and we were soon driving away from Enzo’s apartment in Brooklyn, maneuvering through evening traffic.
When we arrived at my 19th century brownstone mansion in Manhattan, I slowly climbed up the front steps to the entrance, where the doorman stood waiting.
“Good evening, Miss Romano,” the doorman greeted with a smile as he opened the front door.
My heart was pounding as I took a second to figure out how to introduce Enzo.
It had been a while since I’d brought a man home.
Not that Enzo was meant to be my date or something.
But still. He was my fiancé regardless of what our feelings were.
And in that moment, my feelings were all so tangled up that I could barely sort through them.
There was trepidation about bringing my future husband home before our wedding.
Not because I cared about rules and morality, but because having Enzo in my house made this real even before a walk down the aisle.
Made it real because we’d soon have to discuss where we were going to live as husband and wife.