Page 140 of Alessio

Alessio glanced back and forth between the elevators, and the waiting woman. He didn’t have time to fuck around here—it would take him a few minutes to get upstairs, and inside the penthouse anyway.

“I’ll grab it on my way out,” he told her, going for the elevators.

“The penthouse is empty, sir. That’s why I have this.”

Alessio’s back stiffened.

Of course.

Fucking Corrado.

He loved the man.

Loved him stupid.

But he did dumb things.

And this was probably one of those.

Alessio spun on his heel and crossed the space to the front desk in six long strides. He took the envelope from the woman with a tight smile and turned his back to her as he ripped it open. Pulling the piece of white stationary from it, he found familiar handwriting staring back at him.

Something else people didn’t have a clue about Corrado?

He didn’t like to talk. Communication wasn’t his thing because he’d never been good at it when he was in a mood, and he would avoid it at all costs.

Corrado had known Alessio was coming back. It didn’t surprise him all that much that the man had done this—left him a small note—instead of sending him a message or answering one of his many texts.

I need a couple of days, it read. Sorry, Les. I’ll see you when you get back. Love you.–Corrado

Alessio tapped the paper against the palm of his hand, aware he had to get back to the airport soon.

Fuck it.

Plan B, then.

As soon as he got back.

Andino had lied.

Sort of.

Ginevra could not immediately see her sisters when she arrived back in New York. Details, someone thought to explain. Yes, the girls knew she was coming back, and yes, she could see them soon, but first they had to finish out a few things.

Just in case.

Those things?

Pulling the plug on Darren’s life support. Apparently, with her half-brother still technically alive, though no one believed he would make it through considering the doctor’s prognosis on his condition, people on the Calabrese side of things were still holding out hope. Like that would make a difference.

Ginevra didn’t pretend to understand the way Andino Marcello’s mind worked, or why the man seemed to enjoy pulling the strings of the people around him in a way that showed he was the only person who was in control, but here they all were.

Because of him.

Instead of being granted access to her sisters, Ginevra was tucked away in a fancy room at the Waldorf in Manhattan for the better portion of three days. Without a phone, or any other way to communicate with someone outside of the hotel.

There had even been two men who worked in twelve-hour shifts that guarded the hotel door. They were also the ones who took the phones from the Waldorf suite and only allowed room service in when she let them know ahead of time, so they could order it.

They’re not for you, she was told, but for someone who might want to hurt you.