“This is un-fucking-acceptable!” Dad bellowed, chucking his glass of scotch into the fireplace before pacing his office. My brothers and I remained quiet, waiting for him to continue.
“The evidence was stacked against him,” Dad continued, struggling to grapple with everything we’d shared. “You’re telling me for thirteen fucking years my daughter’s murderer has been walking the streets?”
Dad’s attention landed on Constantine. As the eldest son, he would have inevitably taken the brunt of Dad’s anger. “This is my fault. I should’ve looked deeper.” He stepped forward, his apology doing nothing to alter Dad’s vicious stare.
Facing the fireplace again, Dad’s shoulders broke forward, a touch of that vitriol pointed at my brother waning. “What’s your plan?”
Taking the lead, Constantine explained how we planned to meet up with Carter’s team in Syracuse to take the cleaner in for questioning. “We’ll figure this out, you have my word.” He glanced at Alessandro, then over at me. “I know Mom never wanted us to follow in your footsteps after you left Italy, but I suppose it was fate that we did. We may have let you down, but we—”
“It wasn’t fate.” Dad sighed and went over to his desk. He dropped onto the leather swivel chair, his eyes coasting back to the raging fire.
“I didn’t mean about Bianca’s death,” Constantine quickly stated, his tone harsh with regret.
Dad waved a hand in the air, an apologetic frown on his face. “What I meant is you followed in my footsteps because I put you on that path.”
My arms fell to my sides as I stepped forward, Alessandro mirroring my actions. Did we just hear him right?
“It was my idea.” He reached for a new glass on his desk and poured himself another drink. “I called in a favor in Washington. A big fucking favor, borderline blackmail.”
“You’re telling me you arranged our ‘get out of prison’ deal? You’re why we became mercenaries for the government? Taking kill-or-be-killed-type orders on missions from that shadowy group that made the CIA look like the Boy Scouts?” I hadn’t realized I’d walked all the way to his desk and planted my hands on it, but there I was, ready to square off with my old man.
“I wasn’t about to let my sons rot in prison for doing the right thing.” He sipped his drink, eyes falling to the amber-colored liquid, and he swirled it around. “I didn’t expect you all to become like me in other ways. Seeking justice in our own city.”
“How could you not expect that?” Alessandro snapped, and I looked back to see him throwing his hands in the air. “We’re your sons. It’s in our blood. Of course we’re going to wind up like you, especially when you put us on the same damn path.” He turned and dragged his hands through his hair. “I’m an addict, Dad. A fucking addict.” He whirled back around. “I’m addicted to the hunt. To the chase. Nothing satiates it. Not women. Jumping from planes. Fast cars. Nothing.” He pointed to his skull, appearing to be on the verge of some type of breakdown. “I’m fucked up, Dad, don’t you get it?” He pointed at me, then Constantine. “Fuck, all of us are. You should’ve let us do our time in prison!” And then he stormed from the room and slammed the door shut behind us.
Holy shit. I knew my brother missed that life, but . . . damn.
“Is it possible you pissed off the wrong people and they killed Bianca as retribution?” Constantine finally asked, interrupting the silence that had hung in the air since Alessandro left.
His question had my father on his feet and throwing his second drink into the fire, just missing Constantine’s head.
“Absolutely not.” Dad circled the desk and set a hand to Constantine’s chest, and although Dad was shorter than him, he stared at Constantine as if letting him know he was still the man of the house. The one in charge. But was he really? I wasn’t so sure.
My father didn’t intimidate or scare me, not anymore. He may have chosen our destiny thirteen years ago, but I wouldn’t let him dictate my future.
“I need air. And we should go soon,” was all I said before leaving Constantine to face off with our father.
I went to the guest room to change into what I’d wear tonight, then sought out Maria, the only one capable of calming the storm inside me.
She was on the phone with Chiara when I found her, and I quietly shut the bedroom door. She had on a fluffy white robe she’d probably found hung up in the bathroom, thanks to my mom’s attention to detail. The thing practically swallowed her up in the heavy fabric, and fuck if I didn’t just want to take it off her and walk my mouth over her naked body, sucking and kissing every inch of her.
That’s what I wanted to do. But what I needed to do was go infil a CIA safe house and interrogate a man, taking him to near death to find out who really killed my sister.
Maria ended the call and set the phone on the bed. She slowly took inventory of my current look of head-to-toe black. Combat boots, cargo pants, a dark tee and backward ball cap. It wasn’t exactly a look she was used to seeing me wear, and yet, aside from my chef’s coat, I preferred it to a suit.
“You’re . . .” She blinked. “You look ready for war minus the face paint.”
I closed the space between us, taking cautious steps for whatever reason, as if worried she might see me as a predator and take off. “Face painting is later,” I said with a wink, trying to ease her distressed look.
I wrapped my hands around her waist, the bulky fabric an inconvenience when I wanted to feel the silhouette of her beautiful body. God, I loved her curves. And Thomas, who still needed to be dealt with, was an asshole for making her feel anything less than a goddess.
“You’re leaving?” she whispered, her tone fragile, and that sad look in her eyes cut deep.
I nodded, but then her brows slanted, and she cocked her head to the side. “What is it?” Damn, was I that easy to read? No, she had been breaking down my walls, and I was letting her. Letting her get to know the real me.
“My father,” I finally shared, releasing her to sit. She sat on the bed next to me, and I took her delicate hand between my palms and held it captive. “He made the deal with the government. He’s why I became a mercenary, ultimately leading me down the other path as well . . .” Taking justice into my own hands.
I wasn’t sure if prison would’ve been a better option, but at least I wouldn’t have as much blood on my hands. Even if I’d only ever gone after bad guys, no amount of cooking and repenting could unwind everything I’d done over the years.
But then . . . what would’ve happened had my brothers not stopped that terrorist and killed him? Or if we didn’t intervene and save that woman from her abusive ex? And more and more stories flooded my mind. For whatever reason, good couldn’t seem to exist without evil and vice versa. Balance seemed to be needed for the universe to survive. And my brothers and I, in our own way, somehow kept that balance. Right or wrong, though? Fuck if I knew.
Maria flipped my forearm over, tracing the rosary with her finger. Then she skated a path along the words no mercy.
“Not everyone deserves mercy,” I said, thinking about the evil I’d encountered.
“But do some?” she whispered. “Does Thomas?”
“I don’t know,” I hoarsely responded, and I really didn’t know, that was the problem. “I, uh, should go.” Emotion caught in my throat as I freed us from our entangled state and we both stood.
I seized her cheeks, holding her face with a bit of terror fastening around my heart that I might not make it home alive, a thought that hadn’t crossed my mind in thirteen years. I’d had no one to come home to after those missions, so I’d always felt invincible. It was harder to hurt a man who didn’t fear death, and it was much easier to attack someone who had everything in the world to live for, and now . . .
“Get the bad guy. Stay safe. And come back to me, okay?” Her voice was so tender, I could nearly hold it in my hands as if it were a tangible thing.
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered, hoping I could follow her orders. All three of them.
“But, Enzo,” she began while pressing up on her toes, her mouth seeking mine, “you don’t need to show mercy to the asshole who killed your sister.” She shook her head, her eyes narrowing. “Not a drop.”
