Page 68 of The Masked King

“And then what? Can I go to drama classes?”

Would she give up the idea if I told her it was off limits? If she’s anything like her mom, she’d climb out of her dorm room window to go to fucking drama school, without a bodyguard, and without her house supervisor knowing that she isn’t sitting at her desk completing her math assignments like the model student she’s been until now.

“Yes. But you’ll wait to hear from me first.” I hold her gaze, and her face lights up.

“Thanks, Uncle Enzo.” She gets up and wraps her arms around my neck. “You’re the best.”

I smile. “Don’t let Uncle Gio hear you say that. He wears the best uncle badge with pride.”

“Can we go now?” Leo is already on his feet, having hardly spoken.

“I thought we could go get pizza. I know where to find the best hole-in-the-wall in Rome.”

“We already ate.” He shuts the suggestion down.

Sofia hugs me again. “Sorry, Uncle Enzo. Maybe you could give us some warning next time.”

“Sure.” I offer Leo my hand, and he shakes it weakly. “Next time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says without conviction.

They turn to leave and Sofia hesitates, rummaging around in her leather satchel. “I almost forgot, Mateo gave me this card to give to you. He said you met in New York, and you would know what it means.”

Adrenaline is already pumping around my veins before she hands me a black business card with the word JADED printed in shiny green letters on the front.

“We have a problem.”

I’m walking along the Via Firenze with Luis. Gio is on the other end of the call, getting the brunt of my fears and my heavy breathing. Seems that frequently getting tasered and skipping meals takes its toll on the body after all; just when you’re starting to feel like you might not be immortal, along comes the proof like a sledgehammer.

“Go on.”

“A Bratva problem.” There’s silence at the other end. “I need you to run a check on a guy called Mateo Esposito. I’m on Via Firenze looking for a drama school that doesn’t exist. The bastards turned Sofia’s head with acting lessons, and she’s already mentally auditioning for a role in a movie being filmed at your studio in LA.”

“What does any of this have to do with the Bratva?” Calm is Gio’s middle name these days. Must be love, or cake, or the perfect family waiting for him to come home every night.

“They left a calling card.”

“Okay, have you increased security around the children?”

“Is the Pope a Catholic?” I sense his flicker of a smile. “And for the record, they’re teenagers. Do you remember Bianca at fourteen years old?”

“Fuck.” There’s a pause. “Are they safe or should we move them?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gio. The kids are not chess pieces. They don’t even know where home is these days, and if those Bratva fuckers get their hands on either of them, you’ll be hearing about me on the news channel.”

“I’ll speak to the principal.”

“Done.”

“Did you let Leo and Sofia know how serious this is?”

“Indirectly.”

I reach the Via Firenze address printed on the poster I ripped from the school’s bulletin board, scrunch the sheet into a ball, and toss it into the nearest trash can. The building is a hotel, a well-established hotel with tourists stepping outside in their wide-brimmed hats and tinted shades.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gio presses.

“It means, I didn’t want to scare the shit out of them. When was the last time you spoke to either of them?”