Page 67 of The Masked King

I wince. “Did it work?”

“No. But whatever information Uncle Gio was given, it’s wrong. We’re perfectly safe.”

I’m struggling to believe her. The team wouldn’t make a call like that without good reason and sufficient evidence to back it up. Either the kids have been warned to remain silent, or they’re hiding something.

I glance at the bodyguards, and one, his name is Antonio, gives me a brief nod in return.

Whatever they saw, they had no immediate concern for the twins’ safety, but they had to bring it to our attention anyway. Because if anything happened to Leo or Sofia on their watch, they would be making themselves at home at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea right now instead of guarding the door of an aesthetically pleasing library in an equally impressive school.

Is Sofia’s smile a little too bright, too fake?

Leo, in contrast, drums his fingers on the arm of the couch and studies a bookshelf somewhere behind me as if he can’t wait for this ordeal to be over.

“So, you’ve had no contact with anyone outside of the school?”

I keep it light, trying hard not to project my fear and suspicions onto her. They’ve had it tough enough. I’ve already isolated myself from Gio and Megan’s twins; I’ve no intention of becoming the ogre uncle that everyone is afraid of. There will come a time when they’ll need someone to talk to, and I’d quite like that someone to be me.

“No.” She flashes me with a sweet smile and wide eyes.

“Leo?”

“What?” Her brother blinks me back into focus. “Whatever she said.”

“Okay.” I gesture for Antonio to join us. “So, your bodyguard will reiterate what you just told me, huh?”

“Sure.” Leo shrugs.

Sofia nods, her curls bouncing around her face, her foot bouncing animatedly. Antonio has almost reached us when she blurts out, “Unless you’re talking about the guy from the drama school.”

I dismiss Antonio with a glance and focus on Sofia. “Which drama school? What’s his name?”

A brief huff of laughter escapes her lips and vanishes into the ether. “It’s a new school opening on the Via Firenze. His name is Mateo Esposito. There was a poster on the bulletin board in the foyer, and I emailed them to ask if I could enroll. It’s completely legit, Uncle Enzo. My friend Susi is going to enroll too.”

I want to tell her that I don’t care about Susi. All I’m interested in right now is finding out how far this email communication has gone and ensuring the safety of my sister’s kids while they’re in our care.

“So, you haven’t started drama classes yet?”

I try to unclench my fists, telling myself that this is perfectly innocent, lots of kids dream of a Hollywood career, and she lived in LA most of her life for fuck’s sake.

“No. Mateo has added our names to a waiting list ready for when the school opens, which will be soon.”

Breathe, Enzo. I’m pissing all over her parade and she hasn’t even had a lesson yet. “And you haven’t met this guy, Mateo? He didn’t come to the school to demonstrate his acting skills?”

This is the part where she’s supposed to say no.

Instead, she scrunches up her face and says, “He came here yesterday to speak to me and Susi and another student whose parents are both actors.” Her expression crumples, and she sucks on her top lip as if she could rephrase it so that I stop morphing into Enzo the Sicilian Hulk and smile at her instead. “That’s all. No biggie.”

Mateo Esposito. Via Firenze. I’m imprinting the information inside my skull with indelible ink.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, stabbing at the rage swirling around in my gut without making a dent. “I don’t need your permission to take acting classes. Uncle Gio has his own film studio in LA. I thought maybe he could get me a small part in a movie someday… after I graduate.”

She’s right, she doesn’t need our permission, and the last thing I want to do is shatter her illusion that the world is full of genuinely nice people with her best interests at heart. But the truth is, the world is full of evil fuckers who would exploit her to swell their own bank accounts, and never a lose a moment’s sleep over it.

“Promise me you’ll have no more communication with him until I’ve checked him out.”

“Okay.” She sounds about as far from okay with this as she can get. “Why?”

“You don’t need to worry about why. Call it your Uncle Enzo’s paranoia.”