I’m tempted to set aside the gift, just out of spite, but curiosity gets the better of me when I catch the name of the shop on the box. Gold curlicue letters tucked in one corner, so subtle and expensive.
Fingers trembling, I untie the thick ribbon holding the package together and, using two hands, lift off the lid. Inside is another case, one that makes me catch my breath.
The name on the box gave a clue, but it’s still surreal to see the violin case carefully tucked into thick layers of tissue. Disbelief quickly turns to excitement as I find the case’s handle and pull the long rectangle free of its packaging.
“Holy shit.” I simultaneously want to prolong this moment even while I’m dying to see what’s inside. Impatience wins out and, snapping open the case’s clasps, I lift the lid to find the most beautiful violin looking back at me. I don’t need to check the craftsman’s label inside the body to know that it’s the most exquisite instrument, the kind only international star soloists can afford.
I hold my breath, running my fingers along the smooth neck, unstrapping the Velcro holding it safely in place and lifting the violin free. I’m about to rest it on my shoulder when I notice a white card on the case’s velvet lining.
I pick it up and, skimming the words, realize I’ve never seen Rem’s handwriting before. It’s bold but clean, all power and sharp lines.
To my beautiful wife, I cannot replace what’s been taken from you, but I want nothing more than to stand by your side as you begin again. Together, with me. A small gift to get us started. Ti penso ogni giorno, cuore mio.
Rem’s handwriting blurs behind tears, my throat constricting around the words I don’t dare say.God, this man. I’m in love with his gift, in love with the message he sent with it, the glimpse of his heart he’s given at the same time. And so fucking furious that he’s not here for me to tell him to his face.
Too agitated to play, I set the violin back in the case and grab my new phone from the bedside table. Rem helpfully programmed just four numbers into it: Agata’s, his head ofsecurity’s (and my current backup bodyguard when Rem’s not around), Bianca’s, and his own.
I call Rem first, praying he’ll pick up.
He doesn’t. I try again, repeating the process several more times, my external monologue about his character getting more colorful the more obvious it becomes he’s ignoring my calls. Thank goodness Agata is long gone otherwise she’d be pointing one of her very sharp kitchen knives at me. She isn’t a woman of many words, but during my time in the penthouse I’ve learned she’s very protective of Rem.
Dropping my voice, just in case she’s loitering in the hallway somewhere, I try Bianca. The line rings and rings and it’s just about to roll into voicemail when Bianca picks up.
She’s breathing heavily, panic practically jumping through the line. “Oh, God. Lena.”
“Bianca, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s—” She’s gasping, making it hard to understand what she’s saying.
“Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”
“No, no. Not me. I’m fine.”
If it isn’t her… My stomach drops, clamminess coating my palms. “Bianca, what’s happened? Please, tell me.”
“Oh my God, Lena,” she manages around a sob. “I-I think they might be dead.”
25
REM
“He’s barely holding on, boss. Thought you’d want to do the honors.” Bruce hands me the carving knife. I let the weight of it settle into my palm.
What’s left of the shooter who went after Lena and Bianca is tied to a chair in the bowels of one of our clubs. He’s stripped down to nothing but his underwear. He doesn’t have any identifying marks or tattoos that I can see. Nothing useful to connect him to his employer. His body is mangled, his skin a tapestry of injuries. He’s missing most of his fingers, and the skin of one hand is almost completely gone.
I gesture at what’s left. “You do that?”
“I only helped it along,” Bruce answers. “He ripped off most the skin when he was breaking through the glass of the elevator vestibule, trying to get to the women. But,” my soldier continues with a cold smile, “the rest is all me.”
Bruce has used his considerable skills to extract as much intel from the fucker as possible, but either the man’s vocab is extremely limited or he’s more loyal to his employer than I gave him credit for.
Thesfigatois well past the point of begging for his life. Hebarely reacts when I run the tip of the knife across his face, getting so close to one eye I give his lashes a little trim.
“Sei proprio uno stronzo,” the man groans through split lips.
Bruce chuckles.
I sink the knife beneath the fucker’s skin. “Did you really just call me an asshole?” Blood wells from the gouge in his cheek but he just lolls his head.