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Orlando’s temper explodes like a powder keg. He leaps to his feet, his face flushed with rage. “You come into my house after everything, and you dare—”
My voice cuts through his tirade like a whip. “We know Naomi Ritter and her child were yours. Eighteen years ago, the Irish asked for a name, and rather than give it, my father chose a decade-long war. You may want to consider your next words, De Luca.”
Orlando becomes still as a stone. “You’re blackmailing me? Either I join forces with you or you’ll throw me to the Irish dogs?”
“In a nutshell, yes. Give up the narcotics, fall back in line, and never ever break faith again. Or face the Irish on your own.” I pause, letting my words sink in before unleashing the killing blow. “And forget about meeting Naomi’s daughter. Your daughter.”
Orland freezes. “What? What are you saying?”
“She’s alive, Orlando. Adele is alive. Like a phoenix, she survived Emil Novak’s gunshots. And five weeks ago, she survived Owen’s bomb. I put her off-grid.”
I can see the physical impact of my words on Orlando. He staggers back, collapsing into his chair. The emotions that play across his face are raw, unguarded—shock, joy, and, most of all, an overwhelming regret that makes my chest tighten.
“Emil and Owen Novak?”
I nod. “Father and son. Both ghosts. Both are now dead.”
“Do we know who sent them?”
I wince in regret. “No.”
“But she’s alive.” He breathes.
“Yes,” I confirm.
His eyes become glassy with unshed tears. It’s a startling transformation, seeing this hardened mafioso stripped bare by a single word.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bianca pale as a sheet, her knuckles white as she grips the back of a nearby chair.
“Is it still fresh?” I ask, using our code to inquire if it’s safe to continue.
Bianca hisses, her composure cracking. “How much more can there be, you fucking cheating bastard?”
Orlando waves a weary hand, gesturing for me to continue. He looks utterly drained, as if the weight of his past has suddenly become too much to bear.
I lean forward, my voice low and steady. “Let me spell out the terms again, Orlando. You lose the narcotics business and fall back in line, or we tell the Irish it was you. We’ll end the war by letting them tear you apart, and of course, you never ever get to see her again.”
Orlando drops his head into his hands, his next words muffled but clear. “My daughter is alive.”
I feel a strange mix of pity and respect for this man who’s been carrying such a burden. “And who knows? You may be getting a Vitelli son-in-law after all.”
Orlando’s head snaps up, his eyes boring into mine. “Really?”
I nod, allowing a small smile. “If Adele will have me, yes.”
The expression that crosses Bianca’s face is pure, unadulterated rage. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by a mask of indifference, but I’ve seen it. A chill runs down my spine as I realize the storm that’s likely to break in this household once we leave.
“Your Don wants an answer in twenty-four hours—” I begin, but Orlando interrupts.
“He can have it now,” he says, his voice stronger than it’s been since we arrived. “I’m in. My only condition is that I get to meet my daughter.” He hesitates. “If she wants to, that is.”
Bianca rolls her eyes dramatically and storms out of the room, the sound of her heels echoing on the marble floor.
I nod, acknowledging his terms. “That can be arranged.”
Neither Sal nor I move to shake his hand. Not until Orlando gets back his ring—he hasn’t earned that right yet.
“We’ll see ourselves out,” I say, standing.
