Page 93 of Lorenzo

For one horrible second, I think he’s dead. Then his terrified brown eyes find mine, and he lets out a weak yip.

“Ernesto!” I scream.

Branches crack behind me as Ernesto comes running. I turn away, unable to look.

“Those fuckers,” he growls, dropping to his knees beside the board. “He’s alive, Mrs. Ricci. Look at him.”

Biscotti struggles against his restraints, fighting with every ounce of strength in his tiny body.

“Stand back while I get him loose,” Ernesto says.

His fingers move surprisingly gently as he works at the ropes. Only then do I realize the blood isn’t coming from Biscotti. Though his pink tummy is soaked red, there’s no wound on him at all.

The blood belongs to something else.

A few moments later, Ernesto lifts him free. I drop to my knees beside them. Biscotti immediately presses himself against me, trembling so hard I can feel it through his wet fur.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, clutching him against my chest. “I’ve got you.”

I lower my ear to him and listen. His heart is still beating. Fast. Frantic. But beating.

“I’d better call Dante,” Ernesto says, standing. “I left my phone in my jacket by the restaurant. I’ll be right back.”

I nod without looking up. Right now nothing matters except holding Biscotti. I wrap my arms around him and sit there in the dirt, trying to calm his shaking body.

Minutes tick by.

Where is Ernesto?

CHAPTER 41

EMILY

It takes all my concentration to accept that Ernesto isn’t coming. And my phone’s battery is dead.

Cradling the trembling Biscotti against my chest, I stumble out of the woody area known as The Ramble and across the park to The Circle Hotel.

I rush past the concierge, into the elevator, then into the apartment Gina and Dante share.

Before I even finish explaining what happened to Gina, Ciro is calling for the veterinarian to make a house call. Then he alerts Dante and Lorenzo about what happened to Biscotti.

Now, an hour later, Lorenzo sits by my side in the living room of Dante’s apartment. The room is silent save for the sound of Gina’s soft crying.

“Do you think Biscotti will be okay?” I ask Lorenzo. “I feel so responsible…”

From my vantage point, I can see the veterinarian tending to Biscotti as Gina watches him.

The vet’s initial report was that there did not appear to be any physical damage to him at all. The blood covering him was not his own blood. God knows whose blood it was, human or animal.

“You are not responsible for what happened to Biscotti,” says Lorenzo, squeezing my hand. “Get that out of your mind.”

I nod. “Did your men find out what happened to Ernesto? Why he never returned?”

“They’ve found him,” says Lorenzo, his tone dark. “He’s been dealt with.”

My mouth opens to ask a question, but I shut it when I see the expression on his face.

I know that look.