Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“What the fuck?” I say, staring at my grim-faced brother. Antonio is usually serious, but today, he looks like he’s facing the grim reaper.
“Don’t make me talk about it, Alexis. Please.”
The please guts me.
We’re going to Carmella Lambretti’s sister's apartment to ask her if what Enzo said is true. Did Carlo believe she was someone else’s child? Who is Aemelia’s father? Antonio barely ever says please. I didn’t think it was within his vocabulary.
“Do you need me to drive?” I ask, worried his mind is elsewhere.
“No.” He lets out a ragged-sounding breath. “I don’t want to think.”
“Look,” I say, smoothing my hands down my thighs. “What happened with Aemelia…”
I stop as he makes a desperate sound in his throat.
“We shouldn’t…” He stops abruptly, the rest of the sentence becoming a gasp that he traps in his mouth. “Just put the damned radio on.”
“If she was Mario’s, we’d know,” I say. “We’d see it in her. We’d recognize her.”
He nods, but there’s still a fraction of doubt in his mind and that’s all it takes to drive him crazy.
We drive across town in silence. The gun cradled beneath my jacket is as warm as my body, ready for anything, but from the tension in the car, it’ll be Antonio who leads this discussion. When we pull up outside the dilapidated apartment block, we both peer up. So this is where Aemelia was staying. This place is a shit hole no one should live in, but certainly not a woman like Aemelia. She deserves so much more; designer clothes, jewelry, cosmetics, the best that can be bought.
“Second floor,” he says, throwing the door open without looking around. Nothing like my cautious, suspicious brother.
I follow with my hand under my jacket, ready because if Antonio isn’t on his game, someone has to be.
We step into the building, the stench of mildew and cheap liquor clinging to the peeling walls. The hallway is dimly lit, a single flickering bulb casting long, eerie shadows. The elevator is out of service—no surprise—so we take the stairs, footsteps echoing with every step.
When we reach the second floor, Antonio raps his knuckles hard against a door marked with deep scratches, the number barely hanging onto the wood. A shuffle sounds from inside, followed by the slow, deliberate slide of a chain lock.
The door cracks open an inch, and a thin, gaunt face peers out. A woman—mid-forties, maybe older, but life has taken its toll. Carmella Lambretti.
Her eyes widen when she sees Antonio. “Venturi,” she breathes, voice rough from years of smoking.
“Open the door, Carmella.”
She hesitates, but the dark intensity in Antonio’s expression and the roughness of his voice makes her obey. If she didn’t, he’d have kicked it in without breaking a sweat. The door swings inward, revealing a cramped, rundown apartment. The place reeks of stale smoke, sweat, and desperation.
A man slouches on the stained couch, his shirt wrinkled and speckled with old food. Aemelia’s brother? His glazed eyes flick toward us, then mist over. Strung out on something. Useless.
In the corner, an older woman sits in a recliner, wrapped in a blanket that looks as threadbare as she does. Her skin is gray, and her breath is wheezy. The smell of sickness clings to her like rot. Aemelia’s aunt Christina—if she’s even still alive.
Antonio looks around, scanning the terrible surroundings. If his heart isn’t breaking for Aemelia, he doesn’t have one anymore.
“What do you want?” Carmella says, her hand pressed to her throat. “Is Aemelia okay?”
“She’s okay,” I answer, giving Antonio a chance to formulate his scattered thoughts. He’s still gray as old water, his hands fisted at his sides, not with violent intent but like he’s braced to hold himself together.
“Then what?”
“Did you have an affair with Mario?”
The question slices through the room like a gunshot. Even I jolt, my spine snapping straight.
Carmella stiffens and coughs, clasping her thin hand over her mouth. “What kind of question—”
Antonio steps forward, his presence swallowing the tiny space, making her recoil. “Don’t lie to me.”
Her eyes dart toward Aemelia’s brother, then back to Antonio. She must decide that CJ will be no help against Antonio. I want to laugh that she even considered him an option. “I—”
“Carmella.” Antonio’s tone is ice and her name grounds out through gritted teeth. “Tell me the truth.”
She swallows hard, her hands wringing together. She was a beautiful woman once. I remember thinking Carlo was a lucky man. She had all of Aemelia’s beauty and a laugh that could have made angels jealous. I study what life has done to her. Fifteen years have taken the toll of thirty. This is what will happen to Aemelia unless…
“It was a long time ago.”
A sharp exhale leaves Antonio’s lips, but he presses on, voice even but laced with lethal intensity. “Is Aemelia Mario’s child?”
Carmella flinches. Her silence stretches, long and weighted. She’s considering her options, weighing what she can gain, what she can lose. If she says no, what will that mean for Aemelia? If she says yes, would we release her, or want to keep her?