Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 66952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I pick up the shoes, turn them over and recognize the name of the designer etched into the barely scuffed soles. They’re brand new and from his favorite designer with a single shop here in Rome. I wonder if he’d just bought them.
But the fact that he was in Italy at all baffles me. What was he doing back here? Didn’t he know the danger? What had happened? Had someone recognized him?
It wouldn’t be anyone from my family. They knew I wanted him alive. I’d told them I wanted to do the killing myself. It was only right.
I still wonder if I could have done it, but I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.
Putting the shoes back into the bag, I pick up the T-shirt, touch the bullet holes in it. The crusty blood. I shove it back into the bag.
I pick up the jeans and check the pockets, not expecting to find anything. If he had a wallet, they’d have destroyed it. Leave no way to identify him if they went to the trouble of sawing off his head and hands.
My stomach turns again, and I remind myself that it happened after he was dead. It’s a small blessing.
The first pocket turns up empty and I expect the same from the second but am surprised that it isn’t when I slide my hand inside.
I pull out a thick gold chain. A man’s chain. The clasp broken.
I hold it high and watch the heavy pendant swing. It’s coated with dried blood. I guess he’d broken it off his killer’s neck before he’d died. Maybe as he’d gone down. The bullets were at close range. Someone he knew?
I take the pendant in my hand and with my fingernail, scratch away the crust.
My eyes narrow because I recognize the symbol. It’s one I’ll never forget. Because it belongs to a man I know.
An untouchable man.
I fist my hand around it. My nails dig into my palms, but I don’t feel pain. There’s no room for pain when rage takes hold. When vengeance is all I see. The heat of hate all I feel.
And I make my vow.
I walk out the door and up the stairs. I know what my men see when they look at me. A man made of stone.
But I am not that.
I missed my brother these last few years. I’ll mourn him now.
And as much as I know I should walk away, walk away like I wasn’t ever here, I won’t leave him behind.
“Bring him home.”
2
Gabriela
Rome, Italy
Past
* * *
The house is brimming with my father’s friends. It’s almost overflowing.
The vast gardens are illuminated with beautiful, soft candlelight, the round tables covered in white cloth. Arrangements of roses in every hideous shade of pink decorate each one, their scent thick in the hot night.
His favorite. Not mine.
I wanted black callas. They’re more fitting for a family like ours.
I’m standing on the veranda swallowing champagne from a crystal flute. I’ve had too much already, I feel it, but I have hours to go.
The soprano sings her solo. I watch her from my place in this corner and her song sends shivers along my spine.
Pain.
So much pain.
I chose this piece purposefully. My father won’t be happy when he realizes I slipped it into the compilation, but I’ll pay that price tomorrow.
A waiter passes and I halt him, down the remainder of my glass before taking another, daring him to say a word. To tell me no.
He won’t. He wouldn’t dare.
I’m Gabriela Marchese, Gabriel Marchese’s daughter. And it’s my party. Tonight is my birthday. Sweet Sixteen.
Not a single person would dare tell me no.
The waiter clears his throat. I think he actually blushes.
I turn back to the soprano and he hurries away.
The heat of the night feels good. Rome in the height of summer. I do love it here. I love this house much more than the almost clinically modern one in New York. I wish he’d let me stay here.
I hear my father’s laughter and turn away from the sound. Slipping deeper into the shadows, I watch him pass in his white tuxedo, looking as handsome as ever, his slightly graying hair the only betrayal of his age.
A woman wearing a horrible fuchsia dress is hanging off his arm. Tonight’s piece of ass, I guess. I bet she thinks she’ll be the one.
If she only knew how unlucky she’d be if she were.
I think about my mother, how elegant she was, and wonder how he can do it. How he can be with women like this. Sluts and gold-diggers who will drop to their knees to worship at his feet at the snap of his fingers.
No, the real question isn’t that. It’s how did my mother ever fall for him. He’s never hidden his true colors.
As if sensing me there, he turns his head and spots me. He eyes my glass.