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She seems to know the parking garage better than I, disappearing into shadows only to emerge farther away in a different lane. I try my best to keep up, yelling at her to stop the entire time.
When I finally burst outside, after a treacherous sprint up the steep drive, she seems to have disappeared into thin air. I lean down, hands on my knees, gasping for air.
Finally, when I’ve gotten some oxygen back in my lungs, I glance around wildly, trying to find that bright red hair.
A flash to my left catches my eye, and I watch her round the corner of the block, disappearing again. Not knowing what else to do, I break into a run after her.
I wish I had chosen more sensible footwear this morning, but my stupid, traitorous ego wanted to look good for Enzo. I slip and slide down the street in spiky stiletto boots, praying I can catch up with her.
I don’t know how I know it, but deep in my core, I’m convinced this is the woman behind everything.
She’s The8.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Enzo
“There hasto be a connection with the Russian guy, right?” Uncle Joe asks, leaning forward to check his notes again.
“Maybe,” I say, rubbing my bloodshot eyes. “But it could be nothing. He might just be a hired hacker who has nothing to do with The8.”
“I don’t know, Enzo. He seemed pretty familiar with her.”
“Her,” I repeat, puzzling it over in my mind again. “That’s the part that gets me. Let’s go through the families again. Maybe we missed something.”
Joe and I spend the next few minutes running through every mafia family in the country, trying to find the ones headed by women. There aren’t many, honestly—the Rossis are one of the few, but we instantly cross them off the list.
“Looking at this,” Joe squints at our list, his brow etched with frustration, “I can’t imagine any of them doing this. Maybe it’s an international family?”
“That would take ages to cross-reference,” I groan, pushing away from the dining room table.
A glass of whiskey sounds really nice right about now, so I go explore Joe’s fancy bar. We’ve been holed up in his dining room for hours, trying to make sense of things.
Even my office doesn’t feel safe anymore.
“Should I just stand naked and unarmed in the middle of downtown and offer myself up to these mysterious assholes?” I joke once the first sip hits my tongue.
Joe snorts, shaking his head at me, but doesn’t rule it out. I glance at the CSI-style board we set up again. It contains every piece of evidence, every clue, and a complete timeline of events, starting with the warehouse fire.
Nothing makes sense, except what everyone has been suggesting recently—a jealous ex or a crazy stalker.
“Let’s go through your list of exes again,” Joe suggests, pushing the laptop away with annoyance.
“There really haven’t been that many.”
I head back to the desk with my glass and slide a notepad over to Joe.A list of exes, think, think.But all I see is Valentina’s face, angry and disappointed, storming out of my penthouse.
“Enzo?”
“Okay, okay.” I think, rubbing my temples. “Marley Lowenstein, sophomore year of high school. She was a cheerleader, straight-A student, now married with three kids, still living in that tiny-ass town.”
Joe scratches her name down and promptly crosses it out. “Who else?”
“Sabrina Shue,” I continue. “Senior year… she was a big pothead then, no idea what she’s up to now.”
“Let’s look into her.” Joe scrawls her name down on the list and adds a big star. “What about college?”
“I didn’t really date much in college,” I admit. “I was too focused on my classes. I did have a little summer fling with Alexandra Tavinsky, she was…”