Page 12 of Revenge on the Mafia

I didn’t have the luxury of time. Even though Mara was eighteen and old enough to visit Mamá, my conscience was burdened with the thought that I wasn’t there for her. I hated that I had given in to the bitterness of revenge. That I wanted anyone who took my papá out of this world gone too. If he couldn’t live, neither should they. It didn’t even make me feel better with one man down. It just gave me something to do. A task that got me out of bed every day. When you lose someone, that was the hardest thing of all. Waking up every day and reliving the emptiness before scraping the little courage you had to face another day. Niccolò Martello was the reason I got out of bed. That and the fact that I was here on a three-month tourist visa that would run out before I could blink.

The house was quiet, as all houses were when people slept. But it didn’t stop the awareness from building. I shouldn’t have even been there. Not in New York. In his house. Definitely not going through his things in the dark. I didn’t even know what I expected to find as I went through the rooms on the ground floor. I could see that it was cleaned neatly, but not too neatly. Like someone had cleaned it and disturbed it again on purpose. I rearranged everything partly because it soothed me, but partly because I remembered Magda’s annoyed gaze on me. Cushions I set up straight, plaids that I refolded neatly. Going through room after room, I knew what I hadn’t found. No hidden weapons or closet full of skeletons.

The last room on the ground floor was his office. Agitation strummed in my veins as I stood on the threshold. Magda’s words came back to me from a few hours ago. I will clean Signor Martello’s office. She wasn’t there, and there wasn’t going to be a better opportunity. But something held me back as if a tangible rope dangled across the doorway. I didn’t know what I would find there, only that I wasn’t ready for it. It was so much more than my search history of the odds of a child inheriting a parent's severe allergy. Leaving it for another day, I retreated and took the stairs to the top floor. I’d go through his bedroom first. It was easier to sneak into his office than an entire floor that I wasn’t allowed to be on.

It was strange to be in the personal space of a man I’d wondered about for a long time. A massive bedroom with a walk-in dressing room to the left and a bathroom to the right. Above me, exposed wooden beams creaked with history. Underneath me, the natural floor planks gave way seamlessly to uneven tiles at the threshold of the bathroom. When I walked through the archway, I found what was almost a replica of the bathroom my parents had. Uneven hexagonal brown tiles on the floor, cream square tiles on the walls. A huge walk-in shower stood toward the back with an opening on either side, but it was the vintage iron bath that won the prize. Standing free in the room, it reminded me of so much that had gone by. Of Sunday’s soaking in a bath while Papá had his long meetings, of falling asleep until Mamá drained out the cold water and woke me up. I hankered for what I had, even if I knew I could never have it again. I yearned for my happiness. My foundation. My parents as they once were.

In my subconscious, Papá’s voice was a whisper. Mi solecita. He used to call me his sunshine. I didn’t know why I suddenly remembered that, but I wanted more of those sweet memories. A raging impulse took over. I craved it so badly it became a tangible ache that spiraled me into action. Throwing the taps open, I filled the bath. With the phone in one hand, I found towels in the first cupboard I opened. I sniffed at his shower gel, liked it, and squeezed a few drops of it into the bath. If he could take my parents from me, it wasn’t even a crime to take his shower gel. But when I shed my clothes and sank into the bath, my burst of energy drained away. I was empty again. Resting my head on the rim of the bath, I stared up at the ceiling. I loathed him.

His fragrance of teak and cedar hung like smoke in the room. It penetrated my skin and invaded my thoughts. What kind of man was he?

I imagined a man whom I’d never known. I only had a few pieces that clicked into my memory. Three men. Fragments of a conversation. A double-edged knife sticking out of Papá’s throat. Blood. So much blood.

I’d panicked after I’d poisoned the Don. Picking up the few belongings we had, I’d taken Mamá and Mara for an impromptu vacation we couldn’t afford. But two weeks later, Mamá’s medication had run out, and the phantom heat of Italian eyes beat on us. I had dismissed it as paranoia. But Mamá spoke of a man visiting her. A man who spoke Italian with her and warned her to be careful. Was it her illness, or was she speaking the truth? I didn’t know and couldn’t take the risk. I had to return to Marbella. I’d expected black armor, guns, threats, and possibly death. But everything remained unchanged. At the hotel, Vega spoke of a rumor. A body wrapped in sheets being moved out, the top floor closed off, no more special orders of Tinto de Verano. I knew then that I’d killed him.

That had just been the beginning. It had catapulted something dark in me I’d never even known I needed to survive. Finding information was the oxygen I needed, even if there weren’t many paths open to me. One of the few was Papá’s best friend, Alfonso. When I’d asked him about Boris Martello, his reaction had been severe. He’s a dangerous man, Anna. Your Papá’s gone. Nothing will bring him back anymore.

No one understood what that felt like. To walk around for years without being grounded. Mara was too young and naïve. Mamá was too lost. And men like Alfonso… he only wanted me to marry his son, Joel. But how could I settle down and start a family when I still yearned for the family I’d lost?

I inhaled slowly. Awareness flitted in with it. The water had lost its heat some time ago, but the sudden temperature drop in the room had nothing to do with it. It was quiet. I suddenly knew that if I opened my eyes, I wouldn’t be alone.

My body tingled with anxiety. My breath stalled. Even though my pulse rushed within my ears, I forced myself to remain still.

Eleven years had passed, and I’d imagined how we’d meet. Maybe while I was cleaning the floor, like I did his father. Maybe it would be while he ate a poisoned meal, and I’d watch the terror fill his eyes. But in my wildest imagination, I’d never thought it would be while I was soaking in his bath, and wearing his scent. Stark-naked.

My fingers clenched around the rim of the bath. A painful lump formed in my throat that I desperately wanted to swallow. Even though I hadn’t switched on the lights, I knew a man like him, who could creep into a room unnoticed, would notice the slightest movement.

My mind raced for an escape route. But I was bared of everything. There was nothing I could use to overpower him.

My body coiled with tension. Because my senses were over-hyped, I picked up a noise. Instantly, my eyes popped open. Two things fell into place. One, ten feet across from me, the rattan chair held a figure shrouded in darkness. Two, the noise was a phantom sound in my panic-crazed mind because he was as still as a statue.

He was a silhouette. In all black, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching me. A tripwire waiting for my misstep.

I’d be safe if I stayed inside the bath. But my nerves jittered inside me. I shot up, meaning to get out of the bath in one swift move. But my body hadn’t caught up, and I banged my ankle against the solid iron.

“¡Joder!”

Fire spread all over my body. Tears burned at the back of my throat. But crumbling wasn’t an option. Grabbing the phone on the floor, I dashed out of the room. Half hopping and half running. With no clothes and dripping water all the way down the stairs. There was only one thing I prayed for while running for my life.

Please don’t let him know who I am.

CHAPTER FIVE

NICO

It couldn’t be her.

I knew my reality had shifted the moment I stepped into my home. The house sat dark and empty, as all houses did when the master didn’t have a soul. But that wasn’t what made my body hum with acrimony like the quiet tension right before a storm hits. I’d walked from room to room trying to find whatever was amiss. I found nothing that wasn’t ordinary. But when I stopped at the edge of the carpet in the living room, lined exactly five feet from the wall, I knew it. It slipped into place like a missing puzzle piece. The room was too neat. It wasn’t unease. It was fucking memories of someone with OCD I’d like to erase from my DNA.

I’d forgotten I’d asked Magda to hire more help. She was too weak to run the house on her own. Besides, the woman was a joke. I invited no one to my home, but she kept it running as if the next unexpected guest were inevitable. If I hadn’t been attached to her, I might have fired her. But I couldn’t handle the guilt. Not when my conscience was already drowning under its weight.

She must have finally listened and hired an extra. That had to be it. I’d wasted too much of my time hiring the first girl, checking her credentials and giving the green light. I’d left this one in Magda’s hands. She was capable enough. But she’d have to tell her I didn’t like everything overly neat. Neat, because I craved order, but not too neat because I hated my fucking sperm donor. Having my house just a bit messed up was a fuck you to him.

Instead of settling into my office to finish the shit ton of paperwork I had to do, I broke my routine and headed up the stairs. When I entered my room and stood on the threshold of my bathroom, it all made sense. It wasn’t the house. It was the intruder in it.

My bathroom lay in onyx light. The masterpiece sitting in my bath veiled within it. But she must have made a deal with the moon because one thin strip slipped through the slatted blinds and highlighted her crown of tight mocha coils like a spotlight on stage. Just a glimpse. Not enough to confirm this nagging doubt stabbing into my conscience. But enough for the unease to linger.

The last time I’d seen that crown of curls, it was racing toward an elevator. I’d let her go then. If it was her… if it was really her… I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it again.