Page 77 of My Dark Fairy Tale
Martina’s gaze dipped to the blazer and the stained dress beneath. “I bet. Okay, let’s get this sorted so we can all go home.”
We followed her up the stairs past a few police officers and a noticeably distressed Signora Verga, who started weeping again when Guinevere lifted a hand at her in greeting.
The door to the apartment was smashed at the handle, huge splinters of wood in the door and the frame like bared teeth. Guinevere’s hand tightened in mine, so I tugged her closer.
Inside, the apartment had been ransacked.
Absolutely nothing was left unturned.
The drawers were ripped out, clothes on the floor and tossed over the unmade bed, the mattress sitting at an odd angle to show they had searched beneath it. Guinevere let out a choked noise, our joint hands moving to her mouth to cover the way it dropped open in shock.
Rage burned through me. I wanted to let go of her hand, banish her to the car, and tear into the policemen about what the fuck had happened. Demanding answers or bribing for them until I knew exactly who had been in my woman’s room.
But she was there by my side, leaning into it like she needed me to balance her, and I could do nothing but calm down enough to see to her needs before my own.
I released a careful breath through my teeth and went straight to Pucci.
“Ah, Signore Romano, we meet again so soon,” he greeted me jovially as I approached, gesturing with one hand for the forensic tech to leave.
“Non dirmi cazzate,” I warned. Cut the bullshit. “What happened here?”
His mouth turned down at the corners as if he was hurt by my tone, but he knew well enough not to play anymore. “Signora Verga called because she heard the crash of the door. The other tenant on this floor and the other two were out for the night, and Verga did not feel safe exploring the noise herself. By the time the first police arrived on scene, the invader was gone.” He ignored my growl of frustration but accepted a sealed plastic bag from a tech and handed it to me. “Do you recognize this?”
It was a small, carved wooden statue of a lion with wings, like the emblem for Venice. Only inside the mouth of this figurine was a wolf pup limp with death.
I looked up at Martina before handing it over, acid surging up my throat.
The man who had organized my assassination attempt had called himself San Marco, like the famous piazza in Venice, and now this. The symbol for Florence was a lion, too, but wingless, and my family had used the symbol of the wolf long before we’d come up north.
The threat was as clear as if they had left a severed head on her desk.
This unknown threat linked to the northeast was officially coming for us, and they would not stop until they owned what the Romanos had had for decades, the Camorra’s seat in the north.
Fortunately, Signora Verga had arrived, and Guinevere’s attention was captured by consoling the older woman, so I could speak without worrying if she would understand me.
“Is anything missing?” I asked.
“No, they left only destruction and this symbol.” Pucci stepped closer, voice lowering, his eyes on Guinevere over my shoulder. “You clearly know what it means.”
A muscle in my jaw popped as I ground my teeth.
“No, it feels like a child’s game,” I said finally, letting my posture loosen. “There is a group of teenage wannabe thugs that loiters out front. You should check in with them.”
“Yes, it could have been some initiation,” Martina added with a wolfish grin. “Kids these days.”
Pucci blinked blandly at us both before huffing, “I could help, if you were honest with me.”
I blinked blandly right back at him.
He sighed. “Listen, I don’t know if you’ve truly given up the ways of your father or if you’re much cleverer than people have given your playboy stereotype credit for, but whatever this is reeks of gang activity. You wouldn’t want your sweet young American girl getting hurt because of the mistakes of your father, would you?”
Martina’s subtle hand on my arm was the only thing grounding me. I breathed in through my nose and fixed my coldest smile between my cheeks.
“If you mean to worry me with mentions of my father, you are missing the mark, Pucci. When he died, I did not shed one tear. Everything about him was rotten through to the core, and if thisistied to him, I expect thepoliceto do their job and discover that for themselves before they bring whoever did this to justice.”
“I don’t suppose you would tell me the truth if I asked if your ... family still had any business interests in Livorno?”
“I do not know the specifics of the Romano Group. Not to mention, again, that we are here for a very specific reason about which you are not being helpful at all. Perhaps I should call the mayor—I was just with him an hour ago—and complain to him about the efficacy of the DIA?”
