Ophelia
Dante
The Marcelli penthouse overlooking Fifth Avenue on the Upper East Side had never felt like home to me. It was too big, too clean. The kind of place that looked perfect in magazines but felt cold and impersonal once you stepped inside.
Everything was white and polished, from the marble floors and high ceilings to the glass walls that showed off the skyline.
I took the private elevator straight to the top floor, watching the numbers climb. The only sound was the low hum of the internal mechanism. There was no background music to relax to, just that steady mechanical noise and the faint creak of metal.
Through the glass walls of the shaft, the city flashed by in streaks of gold and red. Car lights, rain, the blur of people moving below. From this high up, it didn’t look real.
In the last twenty-four hours, I’d gone from interrogating a man in a sweat-stained warehouse to sauntering around a high-end gallery in SoHo with Isabella, checking out my new enemy.
My family’s new enemy.
While Izzy had been in her natural habitat, I’d been too uptight to enjoy it.
Evelyn Cruz was not what I’d expected.
Sure, she was beautiful and sophisticated, but the fire in her gaze, her cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor, and her haughty attitude told me she was definitely capable of the betrayal Alberto had accused her of.
Unfortunately, she’d disturbed me before I could have a good look around her office. It was doubtful she’d have left any evidence lying around to implicate her in the dockyard ambush, but I had to give it a shot.
The background check my brother Nico had run on her was interesting. She’d lost both her parents while at college and had gone on to build a successful career for herself in the highly competitive New York art world with only a meager inheritance. That took guts.
Again, I wondered how far she was willing to go to stay afloat.
When the elevator doors opened, I stepped into the familiar chill of the penthouse and walked down the wide hallway to the living room, where my mother was waiting.
Valentina Marcelli sat on a white leather sofa in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, the Manhattan skyline shimmering behind her. A glossy fashion magazine lay open on the seat beside her, while an empty espresso cup stood on the pedestal at her elbow.
She glanced up as I entered. “You’re late.”
“Hello, Mother. You’re looking lovely this morning.”
“Don’t try to charm me, Dante,” she said with a smirk, but her blue eyes glittered. “You promised me brunch at Castros.”
“Let’s go.”
I offered her my arm and she rose off the couch, swung her purse over her shoulder, and slipped her arm through mine.
“Isabella gave me an update,” she said in that casual but loaded way of hers as we stepped into the elevator. “I believe our prime suspect is a pretty gallery owner.”
I gave a low grunt.
Pretty didn’t do her justice. The woman was fucking gorgeous with all that fiery red hair, haughty green eyes and translucent, pale skin. Under different circumstances, I might even have been attracted to her.
But I wasn’t interested in snitches. People who sold secrets for money were the lowest form of scum in my book. Bottom feeders who deserved everything they got.
I thought about the gallery, the art, her carefully curated facade and the determined set of her jaw that told me just how hard she’d worked to get there. I’d dismantle it all piece by piece if she’d been the one to betray us.
“How are we going to find out if she’s involved?” Valentina pressed.
“I’m going to have a little talk with her.” I jabbed the button harder than I’d meant to and we whooshed down to the first floor.
She gave me a thoughtful look. “Use Rocco. You don’t have to get your hands dirty.”
I gave a grim nod. “If I have to.”
But I already knew I wasn’t going to let that brute anywhere near Evelyn. If anyone was going to lay a hand on her, it was me.
The doors opened and we crossed the lobby to where my car was waiting.
“How’s Il Lupo?” she asked conversationally, as we got in. She’d already moved on, like we weren’t about to completely destroy a woman’s life.
“He’s fine.” I shelved my grim thoughts about Evelyn and turned them to my grandfather.
Out of all the siblings, I spent the most time at Leo’s place. Il Lupo had been his nickname when he’d been in charge. The original Don, he’d been respected and feared, although he’d mellowed with age.
“Still spending all his time in his studio?” She cast a sideways glance at me. My mother didn’t approve of his painting obsession. I think it reminded her of my father.
“Far as I know,” I replied, refusing to give her fuel.
Even though my mother had stepped up when my father had died, she’d never been close to Leo. I wasn’t sure why. Too different, I guessed.
Valentina ruled with icy efficiency, which, coupled with her charming disposition, could be even more terrifying. She could be ruthless when crossed, but it was more of a calm, calculated kind of vengeance than an explosive rage.
Leo had been both fiery and unpredictable, a dangerous combination. But he’d also been fair, and rewarded loyalty.
“Something bothering you?” she asked, as we drove across town.
“Nope,” I lied, but didn’t elaborate.
Annoyingly, Valentina was always five steps ahead of everyone else. She didn’t just read people, she dissected them. Hell, most of the time she knew what we were going to do before we did it.
I couldn’t deny it was useful when it came to business. She could predict her enemy’s moves, spot weak links, and pre-empt problems, turning them into opportunities. But growing up with her had been sheer torture.
Isabella was most like her. Icy, tough, capable. Pretty fucking unshakable. When the two of them got together, they were an unstoppable force. If they’d made their minds up about something, my brothers and I knew better than to try to get them to change it.
Nico, Marco, and I were the opposite.
Loud and reckless, we’d always been in some kind of trouble growing up. We’d drunk too much, gambled, chased girls, and gotten into street fights. Valentina somehow managed to keep us in check. With one withering look, she could make us feel about three inches tall.
“Is it her?”
I didn’t have to ask who she meant. My mother always knew when we were bullshitting.
I’d like to say she’d mellowed with age, but I’d be lying. If anything, she’d gotten worse.
“No, it’s not her,” I replied tersely, coming to a stop outside the restaurant. “If she’s guilty, she’ll pay. I’ll make sure of it.”
She nodded in approval, then waited for me to circle the SUV and open her door for her.
Walking into Castro’s, we were immediately shown to a table near the window. It was the best table in the house, naturally. No one would dare give a Marcelli anything else.
“Thank you, Bruno.” She graced him with a smile.
He bowed, handed us the menus, and backed away.
I didn’t need to look at it. I already knew what I was having. Valentina perused it, but I got the impression it was just for show. As soon as she set it down, a server hurried back to take our order.
Our coffees came almost immediately. That was the other thing about being a Marcelli. Nobody kept you waiting. Nobody who had any sense, anyway.
“Now, tell me more about this gallery owner that I suspect you have a soft spot for?”
There was that uncanny insight again.
“I do not have a soft spot for her,” I corrected, jaw tightening. “I’ll get her to tell me the truth, don’t worry about that.”
“Oh, I’m not,” she said with a smirk. “I know between you and Rocco, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
I nodded. Because we always did.
Rocco was a thug and I could be very persuasive when I wanted to be.
“What makes you think she’s involved?” My mother studied me over her cappuccino.
“Apart from what that weasel Alberto said, she definitely has the connections. I saw Mikhail Orlov leave before I arrived.”
Valentina’s eyes narrowed. “That smooth bastard. What was he doing there? Collecting for Sergei, I imagine.”
I inclined my head. “That’s what Vincent said. Malakov is a fan of the artist.”
She scoffed. “Of course he is.”
It was no secret the Marcellis and the Malakovs were arch enemies. We competed for turf, property, business contracts… Hell, pretty much everything there was to fight over.
We’d grown up hating each other. The Malakovs had always had a foothold in New York, and now it was growing. We had them constantly under surveillance, but that was Nico’s job, not mine.
“You think she gave the shipment details to the Russians?” She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Maybe. Do we have proof it was the Russians yet?”
She sighed. “Marco says the cops haven’t got any leads and those bullet casings didn’t tell us anything. Typical.”
“I’ll see what I can get out of her,” I decided.
Valentina leaned forward. “We need to deal with it, Dante. We can’t have our rivals sensing weakness. One whiff of this gets out and the vultures will start circling.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“We can’t let it snowball.”
That was one of my mother’s favorite analogies. Small problems had a habit of growing if you ignored them, gathering momentum until they became an unstoppable force hurtling straight at you.
Valentina sat back as our food arrived. The salad was fresh and made just how she liked it. My steak was grilled to perfection.
We ate, and afterward I paid the check.
Bruno, the ma?tre d’, was all smiles as we left, but then he had good reason.
He’d received a hefty tip, which the restaurant knew was more of an insurance policy than a gesture of goodwill.
It ensured the best table, the best service, and the best food next time we were here.
That was how things worked in our world.
“I’ll get you a cab back to the penthouse,” I told my mother as we stepped out onto the sidewalk. “I have to go back to the office.”
My mother nodded. Apart from crises, high-level negotiations, and board meetings, she rarely went into the office these days. Her role was largely strategic. The day-to-day operations were handled by the rest of us.
Our headquarters occupied the top floor of a highly secure corporate tower near Wall Street. There was no Marcelli name on the directory board downstairs. No logo on the doors. To most people, the floor belonged to one of our holding companies.
We accessed it through a private elevator that rose directly from the underground parking garage.
I preferred working there, as did Marco, and occasionally Izzy. The four of us each had our own office suite, though the shared conference room was where most of the real decisions got made.
Nico was the exception. He preferred operating from the high-tech command center he’d built inside a converted warehouse in Red Hook. According to him, it was easier to secure, harder to infiltrate, and didn’t require him to deal with people unless absolutely necessary.
Nico trusted computers. People, not so much.
“Don’t forget dinner on Sunday night,” she reminded me, as I hailed her a cab.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
A taxi pulled over, sliding to a stop in front of us. I kissed Valentina on the cheek and watched as she walked toward it, her heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk.
“Call me as soon as you know about the girl,” she said. “Remember the snowball.”
How could I forget?
My thoughts returned to Evelyn. Somewhere in SoHo, she was living her perfect life, unaware that the clock was counting down. And I, the prodigal son, a trained killer, was the one who’d be there when it ran out.