Quinn isn’t built to let things go. She needs full pictures, clear endings, facts that make sense. Ambiguity is her personal hell, which means I’m demanding her sufferance.
“Okay…” Quinn murmurs in defeat.
“You’ll drop it?” I dump the water bottle in the cup holder and pull on my seat belt.
“Yeah, fine. I’ll drop it.”
“Thank you.” The limo eases from the curb. “I’m on my way home now. I’ll catch up with you soon.”
We say our goodbyes and I end the call, sinking back into the seat. The leather is cold against my legs, the silence colder still.First my father, then Raffael, now Quinn—one by one, the people tethering me to solid ground are slipping away.
ButLorenzo Cappelletti?
Jesus Christ.
I shake my head, struggling to process the bloodline Raffael came from.
But Quinn’s right. It tracks.
Yet somehow he stood up for me. Stood between me and men who, I can only assume, live and breathe violence and intimidation—and, no doubt, far worse.
I should go back. To the yacht. To Raffael. To a proud man who tried, in his own broken way, to shield me from a truth that’s clearly been eating him alive.
The urge claws at me, sharp and stupid. I stare at the partially lowered privacy partition between me and the driver, tempted to tell him to return me to the marina. To insanity.
But each mile that carries me away from Raffael forces the ache into submission, layer by layer, until all that’s left is resolve.
We turn left, driving in the opposite direction to my apartment, the detour dragging a sigh from my chest as I slump deeper into the upholstery. The streets are busy and all I crave is the sanctuary of home, not a diversion because of heavy traffic.
Only one wrong turn transitions into another, then another, and within minutes we’re moving farther and farther away from our destination.
I lean forward and knock lightly on the privacy partition. “Excuse me. I’m not sure you heard me correctly. My address is?—”
The glass slides up the final inch, cutting me off.
I gape. Stunned. Speechless. Then suddenly, fearfully frigid.
I didn’t pay attention to the driver. Didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t take note of his face.
Fuck.
I glance around the interior, searching for a sign that I didn’t just willingly climb into a waiting vehicle arranged by the mafia.
I test my door handle—locked.
I press the button to lower my window—nothing. No movement. No sound.
Then I grab my phone and my heart sinks because the screen mocks me with the same dead signal I had the moment I stepped aboard theRequiem.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
RAFFAEL
I stayedon the yacht for hours. Long after the remaining deck and interior crews had been given their marching orders.
I drank. I stewed. I grew more volatile.