Page 52 of Tormented Diamonds
“Yeah…” His eyes slowly widen. “Oh,shit. That’s brilliant.”
“Of course, it is. Now, get me Valentin Carrera’s number. I have an Irishman to uncover.”
“Alejandro’s son? The one he shipped to Houston to get out of his way?” he scoffs. “Marcello would’ve dealt with the kingpin, not his spinoff. The kid’s a punk who isn’t told shit. It’s a waste of time.”
I smirk. “People said the same thing about me, and now, here I am running my father’s empire while he sits in an urn on the mantle.” I toss my empty cup into the trash and turn toward the elevator only to hear a low “fuuuuuck” behind me. I’m not sure what’s got my underboss all wound up, but I don’t have the time, nor do I give enough of a shit to ask. But two more steps, and I see her … rushing toward me, her long dark hair flowing behind her as her high heels click-clack against the floor. “Fuuuuuck,” I echo.
Cathalina.
“Gianni!” She throws her arms around me in an assault of nauseatingly sweet vanilla perfume. “I just heard.”
“Heard,what?”
“That Becca was in a bad car accident. Is she okay? Do they know who did it?”
I catch Anton’s eye as he steps forward. He doesn’t have to say anything. I can read the thought behind that hard, narrowed stare. It’s the same one that’s behind mine.
There’s only one way she could’veheardabout the accident.
Our suspicion of a Connecticut contingent playing an active role in all this is growing stronger by the minute. Any other time, I’d back her into a corner until the truth spilled out. But I’m not in the right headspace for an interrogation, especially here.
“Go home, Cathalina.”
Her heavily lined eyes widen. “But you don’t?—”
“Let me rephrase that. Go the fuck home, or I’ll have you escorted there. Your choice.” I don’t bother waiting for an answer. Leaving Anton to deal with her, I storm toward the elevator, my mind spinning. As the doors close, I catch both Anton and Cathalina’s slack-jawed stares and shift from wondering who’s waiting to shove a knife in my back to wondering who isn’t.
Chapter Sixteen
BECCA
Montclair, New Jersey
Asting of guilt scrapes across my raw nerves as I approach the entrance to the Marchesi headquarters. Twenty-six hours after walking me out of the hospital and into our heavily guarded fortress, Gianni’s interaction with me has topped out at a few scattered hallway greetings and health inquiries. I know he isn’t one for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but the drastic way he’s drawn inward has me on edge and worried.
So instead of waiting for him to work out whatever has him avoiding me, I’m forcing a confrontation. Maybe it’ll blow up in my face and make everything worse, but this gnawing feeling of dread in my gut won’t go away.
Taking a deep breath, I swing the heavy wooden door open, primed and ready for battle.
A few steps inside and I’m already wrinkling my nose in disgust. The Peek-a-Boo is a dimly lit cauldron of cheap lines and cheaper clientele. Men crowd the stage in a mosh pit ofmixed motives. Some stand quietly sipping their drinks while others see how many hits their pride can take before finally calling it a night. It’s lewd, crass, and desperate, a brick-and-mortar replica of the man who built it.
The thought of Gianni doing business in a place like this unlocks some deep-seated insecurities. I don’t care how much crystal and velvet line the place; it’s still a strip bar. There are still naked women with perfect bodies and twenty-twenty vision writhing around in front of him.
My stomach roils as a wall of eyes turn my way.
Great. More spies.
“Mrs. Marchesi,” comes a voice from behind. “Once again, you just got out of the hospital. I implore you to reconsider this and let me take you home.”
I glance over my shoulder at the human tree trunk standing behind me. Gianni didn’t pull any punches in assigning me a new bodyguard. Tazio, or Taz, as he introduced himself, is a huge man of few words who used all of them to let me know how bad of an idea he thought going to the Peek-a-Boo was.
I believe his exact words were,“Are you insane, lady?”
In another life, I would’ve happily sent him on a tailspin into sexist ideology, but he held the keys. Besides, it’s not his fault Gianni turned him into a glorified babysitter. I have nothing against him doing his job. It’s the fear of having another man’s blood on my hands.
“Taz,” I say, tilting my head, “how many soldiers would you say were involved in the caravan that accompanied us here?”
“Uh, eight?”
