“Done.”
“Find Paolo.”
“And?” Marco asked.
I looked at him. Marco’s expression didn’t change. He knew the answer. “And bring me his hands.”
A beat. Then Marco nodded again. “Alive?”
I stared at the screen. At the ghost of my father’s reach crawling across my property.
“No,” I said softly. “Not necessary.”
Marco left. I stayed. For several minutes, I stood alone inside the security room while cameras flickered across the wall. The estate in fragments. Cliffs. Gardens. Gates. Docks. Guest house. Hallways. Rooms. Then my gaze found her. Screen Twelve. Main library.
Aurora stood near a wall of books with her arms crossed, pretending not to be interested in anything. She picked up a book. Read the cover. Made a face. Put it back. Picked up another. That one interested her. She looked around like she was making sure nobody saw. Then tucked herself into the corner of the couch and started reading.
My chest hurt. Sharp. Unexpected. Annoying. She shouldn’t have looked right there. In my house. In my world. Curled up in a room Angelo used to nap in after we drank too much. Sheshouldn’thave fit. But she did.
That was the problem with some people. They arrived like accidents. Then made everything before them look empty.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown number. I stared at it. Only three people had this line. Marco. My lawyer. And the devil who made me.
I answered. No greeting. My father’s voice slid through the phone like smoke over bone. “Santino.”
My grip tightened. “Edoardo.”
A soft laugh. Not warm. Never warm.
“You always did insist on calling me by my name. Even as a boy.”
“You never earned anything else.” Silence. Then another laugh. Lower.
“You sound emotional.” I said nothing. “Is it the girl?”
There it was. My vision tunneled. “Careful.”
“Oh.” Amusement sharpened his voice. “It is the girl.”
I looked at Screen Twelve. Aurora turned a page, completely unaware death had just spoken her name. My father hummed softly.
“Pretty little thing. Ventura blood. Moretti connection. Chiara’s sister. Leonardo’s weakness by marriage.” A pause. “And yours, apparently.”
“She has nothing to do with you,” I reminded him.
“Everything that weakens my son has something to do with me.”
Son. The word landed wrong. It always had. Like a hand on the back of my neck. Like a locked door. Like Angelo’s blood on my shirt.
“You come near her,” I said, very calmly, “and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
“That temper.” Edoardo sighed. “Angelo had the charm. You had the violence. I wonder what Aurora has.”
The room disappeared. For half a second, I couldn’t breathe. Then I smiled. Slowly. Because if I didn’t smile, I’d put my fist through the wall. “You say her name again and I’ll make your death last a week.”
Silence. Good.
“Still a sentimental bastard,” Edoardo murmured. “How disappointing.”