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“About Mario,” I segue the conversation, slightly adjusting myself in my seat. “You said he told you that he had something big about Pascal, but he never said what.”
Her chest sinks as she stares at me, eyes suddenly watery. He was her superior at the newspaper where they worked together. They were such good buddies that I began to suspect Mario of having a crush on her.
“Yes,” she says, her eyelids drooping sadly, “but he never said what. I don’t think he told anyone.”
She sighs, “Aria, I thought your dad doesn’t want you on the case? If you’re dealing with the senator then… you risk losing your–”
“You still don’t get it,” I scoff. They don’t get it. Not even Dad. “Dad’s trying to protect me… he’s trying not to lose another child, but I’m trying to get justice… not to make Mario’s death in vain.”
“Aria…” she reaches out to place a hand on my hands, knitted together on the table, “You’re doing the best you can for an intern. One of these days when you have the right position and resources, you’ll find what you’ve been looking for, but right now…” her hand reaches out to cup my chin, forcing me to look at her, “…right now you have to stay alive to get there.”
Mia’s right. I can only find Mario’s killer if I stay away from dangerous waters and stay alive, but what kind of lawyer would I turn out to be if I run from every scary case simply because I want to stay alive?
“Aria?” Her voice cuts into my thoughts, bringing me back from my reverie. “Are you okay?”
A small smile touches my lips, she may be my favorite person in the world, but this battle isn’t hers to fight. It’s mine.
“I’ve never been better.” I send her a reassuring wink and a smile convincing enough to help her take her piercing eyes off me.
As she begins to rattle off about some other interesting case she’s begun to unravel, a strong resolve forms in my head as I force my attention back to her.
I’ll do everything within my power to bring my late brother the justice he deserves, whether I lose my life in the process or not.
Chapter eleven
Elio
The heavy smell of smoke and whiskey fills the air, hovering over us like a persistent ghost.
My fingers trail over the rim of my glass, the amber liquid in it swirling lightly from my touch as I lift the tumbler to my lips and take in a long sip.
Cortez is plopped down in the chair directly opposite the one I’m sitting in, brows creased and lips tightened in a straight line.
We’ve been chasing the issue of the warehouse incident throughout the past week, and he’s just brought to my attention that none of the kilos of drugs in the warehouse were taken.
“You’re certain that every single kilo has been accounted for?” My brows raise in question at Cortez, whose head is already bobbing in affirmation.
“Sì, Capo.No single gram is missing.”
“Something isn’t right. Those drugs converted to cash are even more valuable than the cash and ammo they took.” Rising from the leather chair I’ve been seated on, I take a couple of steps away from Cortez, hands akimbo. “This isn’t just a robbery, someone planned to rat us out.”
Turning around, I circle back towards my chair. “I want you to draw up a list,” the growl of my voice causes Cortez’s alert eyes to meet mine. “A list of every single family that could be a threat to us.”
Cortez’s brows deepen in contemplation. “Yes,Capo. This cannot just be the doing of a random whistleblower, that Mendez guy was definitely a part of the entire plan,” he breathes. “The team and I are already searching the database for any Mendez but there are hundreds of them in New York. It’ll take some time.”
Fuck.
“And the family that orchestrated the whole thing? Give me a list, Cortez. Who could it be?”
Cortez reaches for a stack of plain sheets on my desk, pulling out a pen from his breast pocket.
“We can start with the Bianchi family. Their leader absolutely detests you,” Cortez says, scribbling furiously on the paper in front of him. “And then, there’s the family that attempted to confiscate our supplies just so their leader could have an audience with you…”
“Ah…what was their name again?”
Cortez’s lips dip in contemplation, and then his broad shoulders jerk in a swift movement, “It was a Spanish name, I don’t recall right now.”
“The Morettis? What about them?” I ask. There’s no ruling out the possibility of any single family who could have a hand in this.