Echo, p.25
Echo, page 25
He did not hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then why are we here?” I had run because I had foolishly thought I could bury my heart in a snowstorm outside a cabin in the woods. I thought I could leave it there, cold and frozen and untouchable. I thought I was saving myself.
But he had dug me out.
He had brought me back from the brink.
Then he had made my heart soar and my body come alive, and I had fallen asleep with the angels smiling down on me as a strong, impenetrable Enforcer held me safe.
Except when I woke, it had all changed, and here I was again, in this place that had no end and no beginning and no hope of a middle.
I was supposed to be the artist of my life. I was supposed to be able to paint that middle, the center where living happened. But I knew now how wrong I had been.
I was never going to be more than the canvas.
A green-and-gold-eyed Enforcer was the paint, and I could no more control his strokes than I could the outcome.
As if he knew the direction of my thoughts, haunting words passed his lips and filled his sleek penthouse. “We’re all born to die.”
Turning toward the window and the spectacular view that meant nothing without the hope of him in my life, I could not ignore the truth in his statement.
I had stopped living nine years ago.
Echo
My cell vibrating in my pocket, being a fucking coward, not addressing the actual question she was really asking, I gave her a bullshit generalized response. “We’re all born to die.”
She turned her back on me.
I pulled my cell out and glanced at the screen.
Conlon: We’re here. Coming up.
I shot off a reply.
Me: We?
Conlon: Me, him, Whiskey, Delta.
Me: Door’s open. Send him in solo then wait in the hall. I need a minute.
Conlon: Copy. But for the record, I’m not doing your dirty work if you lose your temper, and I’m definitely not going old-school and carrying a body down the service elevator in a rolled-up carpet. So just remember before you pull the trigger: DNA’s not your friend, and don’t shit where you eat.
Me: Fuck off.
Conlon: Right. Getting off the elevator now. And oh yeah, he might be handcuffed… and pissed off. You’re welcome.
Shoving my cell in my pocket, I turned toward the front door and heard his yelling in half English, half Italian from the fucking hallway.
“Erico?” she asked from behind me. “What is happening?”
Ignoring her, I waited as Conlon opened the door with a grin. “I love it when a plan comes together.”
Delta and Whiskey, each holding one of his arms, shoved him inside.
Stopping short, he looked at me and shock twisted his face.
“Right. We’ll be outside.” Conlon closed the door behind him.
Handcuffed, his face bruised, his gaze landed on her.
Then his shoulders fell, he stumbled and her name came out of his mouth like a fucking deliverance. “Sancia.”
Every shit piece of my life intersected, and rage hit faster than I could draw on my last living blood relative. “You fucking fucked her?” Seething, out of my goddamn mind, not waiting for an answer, keeping my aim on Caio, I drew my second piece and aimed at her. “You goddamn fucked him too?”
“No! Don’t hurt her!” Caio shouted in Italian.
Shock written all over her face, the Principessa didn’t say shit.
Nostrils flaring, my grip tightening, both of my trigger fingers a hair’s breadth away from total destruction, I glared at her. “Give me one goddamn reason why I shouldn’t kill him.”
“You don’t understand,” Caio spewed before more bullshit came out in a panicked rush. “I did it for her. I had to. Ademaro was going to kill her. Why do you think he brought her to New York? Why do you think he risked that when he had kept her in hiding all these years? I had no choice. His mistress was pregnant.” His voice broke. “He was going to kill her.”
Switching to Italian, I yelled. “Then you should’ve fucking stepped up and taken over!”
“I couldn’t!” Dropping the anger he’d never been able to hold on to, his expression fell. “I didn’t know how.”
Bullshit. “You knew how to pull the goddamn trigger.” He’d orchestrated and executed the entire fucking hit solo.
“You taught me to shoot,” he accused.
“I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn coward.”
His gaze cut to her.
“Don’t you dare fucking look at her,” I roared.
His gaze hit mine, but then the motherfucker spoke to her. “I’m sorry, Sancia.”
Taking a step toward him, I pressed the barrel of my Glock to his head. “Listen the fuck up, because I’m only going to say this once.”
Looking as young as her, my brother stared at me.
“You have two goddamn choices. Step the fuck up. Assume Don. Announce it immediately, put a protection order on her, and give Vincenzo the restitution he wants.”
“Or?” Caio asked, looking miserable.
“I pull the trigger. Five seconds, decide.”
“If you kill me, then you will have to become Don.”
“I’m not now, nor was I ever going to be Don.”
“Then what will happen to the Mantovani name? To the famiglia? Vincenzo will kill them all. You know that.”
“Don’t care. Make a decision.”
Resignation hit his expression, and he slowly shook his head. “Brother, you can’t—”
“Decide,” I ordered. “Now.”
“Please,” she pleaded.
I made a mistake.
I looked at her.
Her dark eyes locked on mine, and her throat moved with a swallow. Then a Cosa Nostra Principessa switched to Italian and spoke with the voice of an avenging angel. “If you kill anyone, it should be me. But do not kill your brother.”
A fucking lifetime of shit roared from my chest, then my guns were holstered and my fists were slamming into Caio.
Sancia
Erico moved so fast that the men who came rushing through the front door as Caio yelled and Erico roared could not have stopped Erico if they had tried.
But they were not trying.
They were not intervening at all as Erico slammed punch after punch into Caio as the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh and bones crushing echoed while blood sprayed.
Handcuffed, helpless, Caio dropped to his knees.
Grabbing the front of his shirt, Erico’s huge fist reared back and finally, finally, one of them intervened.
Mr. Conlon stepped forward. “If you want intel out of him, I’d refrain from hitting him again.”
Pausing for only a fraction of a second, Erico looked at him.
Then he threw the punch anyway.
Caio’s head whipped back. Erico let go of his brother’s shirt, and Caio dropped to the floor unconscious with his legs crumpled awkwardly under him.
“Right.” In a suit and expensive dress shoes, Mr. Conlon used his foot to push a bleeding Caio to his side. “Well. That was an interesting development.” He looked up at a handsome younger man with blue eyes. “Do you speak Italian, Whiskey?”
“Negative,” Whiskey answered.
“Excellent.” The man in the suit looked at the darker, harder man with piercing green eyes who had not said a single word. “Delta?”
His gaze cutting to mine, Delta stared at me, but he did not answer.
“I’m going to assume that’s a no.” Mr. Conlon clapped Erico on the shoulder. “As entertaining as that was to listen to from the hall, lucky break.” He glanced back at the two other men. “Whiskey, Delta, we have it in here. Perimeter check?”
“Copy.” Whiskey turned toward the door.
Delta stared at me for a second longer, then he tipped his chin at Erico and followed Whiskey.
The front door closed behind them, and Mr. Conlon turned toward me. With a practiced smile, he switched to Italian and held out his hand. “Vance Conlon. Pleasure to officially meet you, Principessa.”
Erico’s rough voice snarled with deadly intent. “You fucking touch her or call her that again, I will kill you.”
Smiling wider, Mr. Conlon switched back to English as he dropped his hand. “Right.” He winked. “Still lovely to see you again.”
Caio jerked, then coughed up blood.
Mr. Conlon took a cell phone from his jacket pocket. “I’ll call Talerco.” He nodded toward Caio on the floor. “See what he can do about… that.” He looked at Erico. “Unless?” He raised an eyebrow.
Glaring at me, Erico bit out a lethal order to his colleague. “Leave.”
“Right. I’m sure you two need a moment to talk, but fair warning, Vincenzo’s circling.”
Erico drew his weapon on Mr. Conlon.
“And that’s my cue. I’ll just step out and make this call.” With one last smile tossed my way, Vance Conlon casually walked out of the penthouse with his phone to his ear.
The front door clicked shut.
Quick and efficient, as if it were as natural as breathing, Erico didn’t take his eyes off me as he shoved his gun back in its holster. The split-second sound of metal scraping against plastic echoed in the sudden silence between us.
His nostrils flaring with every one of his sharp inhales, his anger struck me full force before his words. “So tell me, Principessa.” He dragged the title out with loathing as his bloodied hands went to his hips. “Who the hell haven’t you fucked?”
Yesterday, last week, an hour ago, I would have flinched at his anger, at his words. “I did not sleep with Caio.”
“Who the fuck said anything about sleeping?”
“You did. In a stolen car parked next to a private jet.”
His inhale this time was accompanied by a low growl. “Start fucking talking.”
Caio moaned.
Glancing at him, at the violence his brother had inflicted on him, I should have felt something, or I should have been helping him. At the very least, I should have been horrified. But I was not.
I was not anything.
Not anymore.
I looked back at the man who had once held my heart. “Maybe you should not have beaten him if you wanted to talk.”
His hands fisting, taking a step toward me, leveraging his height and size, Erico Mantovani looked down at me with every ounce of Cosa Nostra that ran through his veins. “If I had wanted to talk to him, he wouldn’t be unconscious. Start. Talking.”
“I am not sure what you want me to say. I know nothing of what your brother was talking about before you hit him repeatedly.” Staring at every color in his eyes, the tips of my fingers tingled, and for the first time in nine years, I longed for the rich hues of my oil paints. Terre Verte, Sap Green, Dark Verdigris, Raw Sienna, Cadmium Lemon. I did not know if I could capture the color of his eyes, but suddenly, I wanted to try.
Except I did not just want to paint.
I wanted to leave.
I wanted to be at a country villa in the hills overlooking the Mediterranean where olive and lemon trees scented the Sicilian breeze. I wanted to be where life was simple. That was where I wanted to paint. Paint and forget and pretend I had any other life than this one, but an Enforcer had already told me I could not go back.
Caio had told me I was going to be killed.
Mocking my every thought, Erico growled again. “Caio deserved a hell of a lot worse for taking a kill shot with you right fucking there. What, exactly, did Ademaro tell you before you came to New York? And before you mistake this for anything other than what it is, I’m trying to find out if there’s an independent contract for a hit on you out there or if Ademaro was keeping it in house. So start downloading, and tell me what the fuck you remember.”
Independent contract for a hit on you.
The fissure, it was small at first.
My mind separating from my body. My thoughts separating from this very moment. The past and present bled together as tiny little slices of the life I had checked out from for the past too many years to count played through my mind.
Ademaro becoming increasingly short with me over the last three months. Caio and Ademaro arguing behind closed doors. The Mantovani estate filling with more soldiers, both inside the house and on the grounds, as they came and went at all hours of the day and night. Ademaro spending more time at the estate. Caio forgoing his nightly stops by the small staff kitchen I had taken over, where no one bothered me except him. Then the last night before coming to New York on a private plane.
Ademaro had stayed at the estate.
Ademaro had not stayed at the estate since the night he had married me.
But I had not paid attention.
I had done what I had done every day since I had been brought to a house where a green-and-gold-eyed Enforcer had grown up but where there was no trace of him ever having been there.
I had woken up and gone to the garden.
That first morning after my nuptials, I had gone to seek a place to hide. Somewhere I could cry where no one would hear me as the hot Sicilian sun dried my tears into salty streaks.
But then I was on my knees, letting the dirt sift through my hands.
Three days later, I started picking dead rose buds off the fragrant bushes.
A week later, I had found the basil and the mint.
Then I had started planting. By the end of the first year, I had herbs and vegetables, and fruit trees were growing, and I had found the small, unused kitchen at the back of the house.
It was after my first eggplant harvest, as I was rushing through the rear breezeway with dirt under my nails and my hair falling out of my bun that I had run into Caio. Fresh off a race, a blonde on his arm, he had stopped and stared at me. Trying to avoid him, same as I avoided everyone else, I slipped past and went to the small kitchen. An hour later, when I was making my first attempt at eggplant parmesan, Caio had come in, freshly showered.
“What are you making?”
Startled, I glanced over my shoulder. Wet dirty-blond hair, brown eyes, I knew he was the youngest brother, but he looked nothing like…. Shaking the thought away, I turned back to the pan. “Eggplant parmesan.”
His voice came closer. “You cook?”
“No.”
He laughed easily. “Then what do you call this?”
Survival? Sanity? “I am teaching myself how to cook.” But not well. The house had no library, let alone any cookbooks lying around. I had already burned the first batch of eggplant, and the tomato sauce was bitter for some reason.
Reaching around me, Caio took a spoon and tasted the sauce. “Needs sugar and salt.”
Frowning, I glanced up at him. “Why would you put sugar in a savory sauce?” He had the same big muscles as his older brother.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “But you do.” Dropping the spoon in the small sink, he took a piece of already-fried eggplant off my plate.
“How do you know?”
“Flavia told me.” He ate the entire piece of eggplant in one bite.
My confusion deepened. “I do not know who that is.”
“The cook,” he answered, after he finished chewing.
I stared at him.
“Older woman, grey hair, never smiles, never leaves the main kitchen?” He said it like a question as he took another piece of eggplant. “This isn’t bad.” He ate the piece whole again.
“Oh.” The woman who had reluctantly given me some basic spices and cooking supplies and who I suspected was responsible for stocking my small kitchen with espresso and fresh cheese and on rare occasion, a single-serving-sized piece of fish or meat. I turned back to the small stovetop. “She does not speak to me.” None of the staff did. I had heard Ademaro tell them not to.
Crossing his arms, he leaned against the counter. “That’s probably a good thing.”
“Why?” Using a fork, wishing I had a better utensil, I gently turned over the pieces of eggplant in the pan.
“She’s mean.”
This time, I had not burned the underside. “Is anyone here nice?”
“I am.”
Wary, expecting a playful grin I would not welcome, one I had seen him use on the women he was always bringing here, I looked back up at him.
Staring directly at me, he did not so much as smile.
Having learned from my interactions with Ademaro not to engage, but also not to look away, I held his gaze.
Pushing off the counter, Caio Mantovani nodded at the eggplant. “Don’t forget the cheese.” Then he walked out of the closet-sized kitchen.
After that night, he started coming to the small kitchen almost every evening at dinnertime. Sometimes he would eat what I had made, sometimes he would do nothing more than say hello and leave. Other times he would stay and talk about cars or relay something else Flavia had told him about cooking.
Three months before Ademaro took me to New York, he had caught Caio in my kitchen and had started yelling at him.
Caio’s hands had fisted, and he had walked out.
It was the last time I saw him in my kitchen.
And now he was lying on the floor of a penthouse in Miami Beach.
I looked up at Erico and forced myself to focus on his question. “Ademaro said nothing. He told me to get dressed and bring a coat. Then he took me to an airport, and we got on an airplane with the same men he always had with him.” With no luggage. “He said we were going to New York and that he had business. I did not ask any questions. I had learned not to.” And I was too frightened of flying to ask the one stewardess anything at all.
“Yeah? And what the fuck else did you learn?” Erico asked as more anger bled out. Anger I had been naïve enough to think I could erase. “How to seduce another Mantovani brother?”
“I have not seduced any Mantovani brothers.” I was only guilty of one thing—falling in love with a Mantovani brother.
“Feed me another lie, Principessa. See what happens.”
Caio coughed. Then, weak and rasping, his breath rattling, he spoke. “Stop. She did nothing. There was no contract. Ademaro was going to do it himself.”
We both looked at him.
Blood everywhere, I thought of another color.
