Page 51 of I Would Die For You

“Stefano,” I mutter.

“He’s gone to the consulate in New York to deal with the paperwork for your visa.”

But I’m here, the soft press of Valentino’s palm on my shoulder affirms, and I take some strength from this.

“How?” I mutter.

“There was an explosion. The theory is a gas leak, for now.”

So that’s how it all got explained away. It must be my husband’s work—the enforcer’s.

“Anything else?”

I swear Valentino barked those words without lifting the volume an iota.

“We understand you met with your father last night, Mrs. Beccario?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?” Something in me knows the less I give, the better it will be.

“And he was okay when you left him?”

I gulp. Valentino presses my shoulder again.

“You can clearly see how distressing this is for her. What are you insinuating, Officer?”

“Just what I asked. Was he okay when you left him, Mrs. Beccario?”

Valentino sighs loudly. “I won’t have this in my home, especially not when you just dropped such a bombshell on her. What time did Mr. Norton die?”

“Around one a.m.”

“At one a.m., my cousin, Stefano Beccario, and his fiancée at the time, Kaya Norton, were boarding a special flight I’d had chartered for them to go to Vegas. Showing you the records won’t be a problem seeing how it’s my own airline.” There’s a slight pause. “Now, if that’s all, please leave. Should you have any more questions for my cousin, my attorney will be fielding them. Carlito?”

The quiet man is back to escort the cops out.

The breath whooshes out of me when they leave, and I’m gasping next, air refusing to enter my lungs.

“Christ, Kaya. When did you last eat anything?”

He pushes a cup in my hand, brings it gently to my lips. It’s coffee, extra-dark, extra-sweet. I gulp it down, shaking from the rush of the sugar as much as the caffeine. A beat passes, then I’m finally looking up.

I don’t recognize the man standing a few paces from me. The bespoke three-piece suit sheathes his form unlike the more casual jeans and sweaters and button-down shirts he wore in Torino. It can’t hide the solid strength of him—in fact, it enhances it, subtly yet with a dangerous vibe—and I never realized how tall he actually is. A couple inches taller than Stefano, which I never noticed when they were rolling around town like carefree brothers.

His face is staggeringly striking now, a layer of hard-won maturity carving out his features even more. The navy of his suit brings out the blue of his eyes, his skin tanned against the stark white of his shirt collar. I can’t say he scares me, but intimidating? Yes, he is. In fact, he reminds me of Don Giacomo. This man is definitely Don material. Strange how he hid this side of him so well all this time. And that’s probably one of his strengths, to not show who and what he really is, keeping it all like a hand of trump cards close to his chest.

“The explosion,” I ask, my voice croaking. “It was Stefano’s work?”

He nods.

“And the other man?”

“Taken care of.”

“The police…”

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