22. Adriano
Chapter twenty-two
Adriano
“But did you ever stop for one second… just one second, to understand how that would make me feel?”
I’m slouched down in the corner of my dark room, bottle of whiskey in hand, staring at the television screen without processing whatever the woman in the suit is announcing.
Those words, along with the intense hatred in her eyes while she said them, have refused to leave my mind.
I take a swig from the bottle. Anger, I can handle. Fury, grief… but this sharp pressure in my chest is unfamiliar, and it’s messing with my head.
I roll my shoulders once, as if I can shake off the weight of whatever lodged itself there when she walked away.
I knew this was coming. I crippled her father’s empire, almost crippled the man she considers her father, and kept her under my roof… in enemy territory, all the while.
A brash laugh rumbles from my throat. Of course, she thinks I have no dignity. I lift the bottle to my lips again. And maybe she’s not wrong… but what irritates me is the urge to justify myself to her.
Why?
Why haven’t I been able to leave this darned room since she walked out of my office this morning?
Staggering to my feet, I reach for my box of cigars in the nightstand drawer, slipping one between my lips.
There are more important issues to tend to, yet here I am, battling images of her tear–filled eyes. I shake my head, a scoff escaping my lips. Maybe I shouldn’t have let her go. Or maybe it was for the best.
Whatever the fuck it is, this… tension I feel, it doesn’t belong in my system. And I have to find a way to flush it out.
I can’t let this distract me from my goal.
Releasing a deep breath, I run my hand down my face.
Victor Caughn is still out there, a total ghost. There’s been no lead on him, especially since I decided to postpone traveling to Utah to visit the ex-police commissioner’s family.
I can’t be sitting here sulking when I have that lead to work with.
I take out the unlit cigar, setting it back on the nightstand since I’m too unmotivated to find a lighter. I’m about to stand up when my eyes catch something strange.
There’s an image flashing on the screen… and it’s of me. Furrowing my brow, I reach for the remote to turn up the volume on the news.
“…breaking news this evening,” the anchor begins, “A high-profile prosecutor has been shot in broad daylight…”
The broadcast cuts immediately to shaky footage.
People are screaming and running frantically through a plaza.
A man in a dark coat turns, a gun in his hand, his face half-caught by a phone camera as he fires at another man in a three-piece suit.
The victim slumps while the shooter—apparently me—disappears into the chaos.
My hand tightens around the remote. What the hell? I wasn’t even out today.
Then the news anchor continues, “Authorities have no doubt that Adriano Bellandini is the person responsible. Footage from the scene shows the alleged mafia don holding a weapon and fleeing right after the crime. The mayor of New York has just come out to address the city…”
The mayor appears on-screen, flanked by flags and a crowd of reporters. He talks about how his team of well-trained officers would do everything within their power to hold the perpetrator accountable because, powerful or not, no one is above the law.
My finger slams the power button, killing the screen. And for the first time, I freeze…
Someone is framing me. The only people I can think of who would want to take revenge on me are dead, and I doubt Enzo would go this far, especially now.
My investigation into Victor Caughn must have triggered this.
“Fuck!” I kick the whiskey bottle, smashing it into the nightstand, my hands shoving my hair back from my face.
Just then, my phone buzzes, and I snatch it out of my pocket, answering it faster than I’m losing my shit.
“Capo, what’s going on?” It’s Francesco. Fuck, that footage was aired on national TV.
“I have no fucking idea.”
“We’re already compromised, two of our safe houses were burned this afternoon. We don’t know the perpetrators yet, but thankfully, our men on guard could douse the fire before any real damage could be done. And the cops are seriously crawling all over the streets. Someone will soon start talking.”
My shoulders jerk in a mix of frustration and anger. There’s only one move I can make right now.
“You’re in charge, Francesco. Until I return.”
“Capo…” I can hear the hesitation in his voice.
“I’m leaving Manhattan.”
He gasps but says nothing. He understands.
I turn around swiftly, reaching for the duffel bag stashed on the top shelf of my walk-in closet. There are ready-to-go clothes, cash, and supplies in it—a precaution I’ve always kept for emergencies.
“You don’t know my whereabouts, and you do not try to find me.” I sling the bag over my shoulder and head out.
My jaw clenches tightly. There’s nothing I can do for now, except go undercover and untangle this web of deceit.
“Understood, Capo,” he says without pressing further.
As I mount my motorcycle parked in the garage, my mind wanders briefly toward Elena, wondering if she, too, has seen the news and is convinced that I’d do something so reckless.
“And Francesco,” I add, “keep an eye on Elena.”
“Yes, Boss.”