Page 20

I stare at him. I can tell it’s not the first time he’s asked. “About what?”

“About the Milanos suggestion that we all meet in Corsica.”

“Where the fuck is Corsica?”

“French island in the Med. I hear it’s pretty.”

I snarl, shake my head. “I could give a shit about pretty. Is it safe?”

“Maybe. It’s closer to them than the rest of us, but it could work. No allegiances there. Independents.”

“You think they’re still expecting us to be weak? Still eyeing us up, like you said, sharks scenting blood?”

He leans back in his chair, snaps a pencil in half. The only outward sign of his stress levels. “Yeah. I do. We can’t afford to get distracted with this other stuff.”

By “other stuff” he means the Vecchissime and Tomasso. He means Rosa. I glare at him, and he does well not to scream with terror. He shrinks a little, holds up his hands, placating me. “I know, I know, okay? It matters. But so does this. Your head’s not in the game, boss. You’re too busy thinking about Rosa.”

I want to smash his face through his desk and suddenly understand how appealing the idea of exiling him was to Vincenzo. How easy it could be, in this position of supreme power, to ignore everybody else’s views. To kill the opposition. To make yourself your own god.

“I hear you, Aidan,” I reply, slowly, choosing my words. “But two things. One, it’s all fucking connected. Tomasso Capelli is messing with us, and he will come for us. No way to separate the two issues. He is our enemy as much as hers. Secondly, I will always be busy thinking about Rosa. Ask me to stop that again, and there will be consequences. You understand me?”

My annoyance seeps out in my voice, and I know my eyes are ringed with red as I pin him down with my gaze. My fangs are out, and I make no attempt to hide them. He nods quickly. His nostrils flare, and his hands fist against the desk. He’s scared of me right now, and that’s not a bad thing. Maybe he needed reminding of who and what I am.

“Have you found the hostages yet?” I ask, going back to business. He shakes his head, looking a little nervous. I’m not the only one screwing up.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and it opens a few inches. Freya pops her head around it and gives me her big goofy grin. Just like that, I’m calm again. She’s like a walking antidote to stress. She slides through the tiny gap she’s created, so thin she could probably get past bars on a cage. “Rosa told me to bring my new friend to meet you. She’s so nice, and she doesn’t smell bad anymore, and she says she’ll take me for ice cream if you let her. Please say you’ll let her.”

I have no clue what she’s talking about, which isn’t unusual with Freya. Her brain is wired differently. But if Rosa wants me to meet someone, then I’ll meet them. “Sure. Bring her on in.”

Aidan makes an impatient sound and I growl at him. “You’re pushing your fucking luck, Aidan.”

There’s no time for a response, which is probably a good thing because I am reaching my limit with him now. The door opens again, and Freya leads in a tall, thin woman with dirty blond hair. It’s been hacked off roughly. I immediately smell the citrus scent of the bath she’s taken, see that she’s wearing one of Rosa’s shirts. The ones I had in my closet for her. I feel her fury, washing over me in a cloud of violent emotion. Her face barely betrays any of it, which makes her dangerous. I glance at Aidan, who rolls his eyes.

“This is Yvonne Marshall. The journalist I told you about,” he says. “Did what you suggested, let her out of the dungeons but confined her to court.”

I nod, dredging up what I remember about her. It’s not a lot. “Why did you end up here?” I ask her.

“For doing my job! For being a reporter,” she replies, voice dripping with self-righteousness.

“Seems unlikely or the dungeons would be full of hacks. What were you writing about?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Tell me the truth,” I add. “I’ll be able to smell a lie on you.”

Credit to her, she doesn’t back away, shows no fear. I guess eight years in the Firenze dungeons have toughened her up. She’s scared—I can hear her pulse pounding—but she’s hiding it well. Impressive for a human. There are scars all over her neck, and her shirt is buttoned right to the top. Probably hiding more, all over her. My stomach turns. Vincenzo and Carlos really were sick fucks, and they created a culture that encouraged every foul perversion under the sun. I won’t waste time crying about it, but it’s further proof of why I need to stay. Need to change this place, make it cleaner and stronger.

“I was doing an investigation into Mafia involvement in building contracts,” she tells me.

I nod. “And let me guess, you found out about a whole new level of Mafia. One with bite. How the fuck did that happen?”

We’ve survived for so long because we’re disciplined. We can blend when we need to, and we have allies in the human world. Relationships. Collaborations. Servants, basically. But our existence should be buried beneath so many layers that nobody should ever be able to find even a hint of our involvement.

“It happened because I’m damn good at my job. A job I want to get back to.”

Aidan shakes his head. “You’re dead,” he says. “When you were taken, a body was found in the Everglades. The remains of one anyway. You were identified through dental records. You’re dead. Your sister mourned you. Your friends moved on. Your job? Your newspaper? They no longer even exist.”

She stares at him, tears shining in her huge blue eyes. She swipes them away, angry with him, with the world, with herself for showing weakness. “I can still go back. I won’t tell anybody a thing. I promise. Let me go, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Or,” I point out, “we keep you here, and nobody ever hears from you again.”