Page 142 of Broken Honor

“Where did you get this?” Alfio asks, voice low and sharp.

“A man broke into my house,” I say. “It was a priest.”

Their gazes snap to me.

“Are you okay?” Enzo asks.

“I am now. But I think… I think he was coming to take me. The message—it mentioned Vieri and Riccardo. Said they’re ‘with them.’ He’s been missing, hasn’t he?”

Omero nods grimly. “A month now. Riccardo too. We’ve had people looking everywhere. Every lead turned cold.”

Enzo runs a hand down his face. “We were going to contact you, ask some questions. You were the last person seen with Vieri.”

“But…” Omero steps in. “We saw you nursing your grandmother. You didn’t seem to know anything. And our uncle seemed more like a viable suspect. He has been trying to kill us. Remember the explosion?”

Bea, who’s been quiet until now, flares. “Wait what explosion? And you were spying on her? Who are you people?”

They ignore her.

Alfio’s already barking orders, calling out to the men behind the gate. “Gear up! Get the convoy ready, three cars. Now.”

Enzo turns to me. “You need to stay here. We’ll check it out.”

“No,” I say, firm. “I’m coming with you.”

Omero shakes his head. “We don’t have time for this.”

“You wouldn’t have that phone if it wasn’t for me. Let me help.”

Alfio tosses a vest toward Enzo and walks toward the garage.

Enzo sighs. “Get in the car. You and your friend. Back seat.”

Bea mutters under her breath. “This is insane.”

I turn to her Bea.

“Don’t tell me to stay. Don’t be silly,” she says.

The brothers load up, moving fast. Weapons clipped, radios strapped, guns checked and reloaded with practiced ease. I watch them move like soldiers. Like they’ve done this a hundred times.

Within minutes, they pile into the car with us, one in front, one beside Bea, and one beside me.

Chapter Twenty-Nine – Vieri

The rope bites into my wrists, coarse and wet from the evening mist. We’re tied back-to-back, me and Riccardo, against a thick, gnarled tree that leans slightly toward the cliff’s edge. One bad shuffle and we’d be nothing but memory and red pulp on the rocks below. It’s almost amazing how today has gone from bad to horrible.

Bugatti’s pacing again. His phone’s pressed to his ear, the screen glowing like a demon’s eye in the dark. He curses under his breath and glances toward Bellandi.

“The priest’s not picking up. Might already be with the girl,” he mutters.

The old man takes another drag from his cigarette, lips curling. He flicks ash into the wind.

“Then let’s just handle these two,” Bugatti says, trying to sound decisive.

Bellandi glances at him, then—real casual—he pats Bugatti’s back. “You did good.”

Bugatti smiles. The old man’s hands slide down to his lower back and then—without warning—he shoves.

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