Page 29 of Unworthy Ties
“It means, Marchioni, that you’re looking at shadows when you should be watching the light.”
“I don’t want any riddl—”
Before I could finish, the door to the back room slammed open. Three men strode in, each with the unmistakable bulge of a shoulder holster beneath their jackets. The tallest one, a man with a face like crumpled paper and cold eyes, nodded at Sully.
“Boss, we got trouble outside.”
Sully’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes. Interest. Calculation.
“Excuse me, Marchioni. Business calls.” He crushed his cigarette with deliberate pressure.
As Sully stood up from his chair, his movements were deliberate and controlled. He nodded at the men and gestured for them to lead the way. Without a backward glance, he followed them out of the room, leaving us alone with the fading tendrils of smoke hanging in the air.
“How anti-climatic,” Dino complained. He leaned against the doorframe, his lanky frame casting a long shadow across the floor. “All that build up for nothing.”
“I’m leaving him behind, Rocco,” Felix said, striding towards the door.
I sighed and followed the two men to the car. Felix slammed the car door shut as we drove away from the desolate warehouse where our meeting with Sully had taken place. The tension inside the vehicle was palpable, the weight of the unfinished business looming heavy in the air.
As we arrived back at the dimly lit warehouse, I couldn’t help but wonder what my next move would be. Sully’s clue hadn’t given me much, if anything, to go on. The investigation was far from over, and my gut told me I was still missing something crucial.
Chapter 14
Gabriella
Ihad been restless all day. When I lived at home, I always had Fiorella to keep me company. We constantly got into squabbles, but that was just how sisters were. I never realized how much I relied on her presence until I started living with Rocco in this big, empty penthouse.
I sighed and walked to the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass as the city lights twinkled below. Thirty floors up, and I’d never felt so grounded by loneliness.
I walked from the study back into the bedroom, where a book had materialized on the bed. Strange. I didn’t remember placing one there. I picked it up, running my fingers along the worn leather cover.
I froze as I looked at the title. This was a first edition copy of The Moon Forgets Sometimes by Margot Ellis, the book my mother used to read my siblings and me before bed. The copywe owned was lost to time—my father threw it away because he thought it was childish.
Rocco and I had discussed it on our date on the yacht. That was weeks ago, and I had only brought it up in passing—how had he remembered?
I picked it up and turned through the pages, feeling the familiar weight of the book in my hands. A small note slipped out from between the pages, landing softly on the plush carpet. I bent down to retrieve it, recognizing Rocco’s elegant handwriting immediately.
On it was a hand-drawn moon with a quote from the book copied in his perfect handwriting: “Some nights, the Moon forgets to shine. But she never stops waiting for him.”
Below it, he had written: “You reminded me of this. You wait even though I don’t deserve it.”
My heart fluttered in my chest as I clutched the note to my chest. Rocco wasn’t good with words in person—always stoic, always measured. But here, in ink on paper, he had shown me a part of himself.
I heard soft footsteps approaching from behind me and turned to see Rocco standing in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the hallway light. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with those intense eyes that always seemed to see right through me.
We stood in silence for a few moments. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I needed to break the silence.
“I thought you weren’t home,” I said lamely.
“Just got back,” he responded, his deep voice filling the room. He remained at the threshold, as if waiting for permission to enter his own bedroom.
I held up the book. “How did you...? This must have been impossible to find. It’s a first edition.”
He shrugged, but I could tell by the slight tug at the corner of his mouth that my reaction pleased him. “I have connections.”
I clutched the book tighter to my chest, feeling the weight of those words. Connections. For a man like Rocco Marchioni, that could mean anything from rare book dealers to underground networks I’d never understand.
“Why that quote?” I asked, stepping closer to him.
