Page 21 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 19

NERO

Once Roxanne Rochford has left, I head back to my guesthouse, where I send another message to La Contessa about the latest demands from a would-be Mob Queen. The phone starts buzzing almost immediately after I’ve sent it. “ Signora ,” I say on answering. “I did not mean to disturb you. It must be late?—”

“Never mind about that,” La Contessa says. “Tell me what is going on there. I thought you had that woman under control.”

“She is tiresome,” I agree. “She wants to renegotiate on the port, though I think?—”

“Absolutely not. Alessandro will retain control of the port. It’s time our ungracious friend understood her place in the world, Nero. Make sure you educate her.”

“With pleasure. But while I have you,” I add quickly, “has any intel come through regarding the staff member I inquired about?”

Impatiently, I hear a brief recounting of the history of the Carstairs and the Donovans, and I hang on every word she says. “But he has nothing to do with anything,” she finishes. “He is a non-entity, Nero.”

I bite down hard, because the response that rises up would make things very unpleasant between us. “I just wanted to check,” I say after a moment.

“Stop wasting your time down rabbit holes and pull that air-headed woman into line.”

The line goes dead. I throw the phone aside and lie back on the sofa, scrubbing my hands over my face. I will never be enough, never sacrifice enough, never achieve enough.

And for some reason, it’s Gabriel who comes to mind, his scowl when he heard what I’d done for that housemaid’s sister and her child.

Not admiration. Not even surprise. Just suspicion.

Is there nothing I can do that will impress the man? With a sigh, I rise from the sofa and consider the rest of my day. Later this afternoon, Ray will pick me up so that we can go and speak to the GreenSpace woman, find out more about these men who were threatening her, though I won’t bother telling Gabriel I’m going to see her. He can find out from her later on.

So I have a few hours to kill—and a desire, in fact, to murder them. I need a distraction. Something to take my mind off my troubles.

The maze? There’s definitely something going on there, but I don’t want to risk seeming too interested. But I do want to speak to Gabriel. At lunch, Roxy—after demanding a bigger slice of the Port of Los Angeles pie—also reported significant changes to the wedding guest list. No outsiders, no friends, not even her own family, except for her young sister as a flower girl. Sympathetic allies only. And now the great lawn will not do for the wedding, because the large space will make the gathering look paltry.

That’s what she said. But I read what she didn’t say easily enough: that she was scared. I assume she’s had threats made against her, and Roxanne Rochford is a woman who wants guaranteed safety. That’s why I know she’ll abandon her expansionist plans for the Port if she believes La Contessa will withdraw her support.

But I want to warn Gabriel to have a few suggestions in hand for when she springs the request for a new location on him. I don’t like the way she treats him and I don’t want to give her any more ammunition. So I set out and wander the grounds, calling out to guards or actual gardeners when I come across them, asking if they’ve seen Gabriel Carstairs. At last I get a tip: he’s in the redwood grove.

I find him sitting in the middle of a circle of trees, sketchbook in hand, pencil moving rapidly over the sheet. He looks up with a scowl.

“What am I doing here?” I ask before he can get the question out. “I am looking for you, of course. And I must say, for someone who claims not to be an artist, you seem to do an awful lot of drawing.”

“It’s for work,” he says flatly. “What do you want?”

“To talk to you about the wishes of a certain redhead.”

He gets a half-smile. “ Did you enjoy your lunch?”

“Not as much as I would have with you.” Honesty always seems to put him off-kilter. “In any case, I need to discuss a few things with you. The guest list has been greatly reduced, which means?—”

“She doesn’t want it on the great lawn anymore,” he sighs. “So does she?—”

“Hello, Gabriel.” Wonderful. The last person I want to see is walking slowly toward us, twirling a wildflower in his fingers. “Hello, Nero Andretti.”

“Hello, Julian Castellani,” I say back, only a little mockery in my tone.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

It takes a second longer than it should to realize that Julian is looking at me as he says that, not Gabriel. “Whatever for?”

“I have a job for you. Come with me.”

With that, he turns and heads off, leaving me to make a decision: disobey my superior in the Family? Or let him have his way?

Julian is one of the few senior members that Sandro did not send to test me. Of course he didn’t—the two of them loathe each other. But it also meant that I did not have a chance to test Julian. La Contessa is very interested in my view of Julianus Aurelius Castellani, and so I give Gabriel a look that tells him I will speak to him later, and I set off after the black sheep of the Family.

Julian leads me back to the Retreat, asks me to take a seat in the living room, and then disappears from the room. I take the chance to look around, take in the midcentury furniture, then find my feet drawn to the glass walls of the living area where the building extends like an outstretched arm toward the redwood grove. It gives the illusion of floating among the trees.

I have no idea why Julian is so obsessed with these redwoods. He doesn’t strike me as an environmentalist.

He returns soon enough with a teapot and two delicate Wedgwood china cups. The steam escaping from the spout of the pot smells familiar. “I see Gabriel has put you on to his tea blend,” I say with my most charming smile.

I have to smile, because if I don’t, I will fly across this coffee table and put my hands around his throat. Why does he have Gabriel’s tea? Are they—are they?—

“Yes,” Julian says, and for one wild, red moment, I believe he’s confirming my thoughts. “It’s very good. Best with honey, I think, as he serves it, and so I took the liberty.”

I stare down at his hands, at the cup and saucer he’s offering to me, brimming with pale yellow liquid. I take it and set it on the side table next to me. “What is the job you wanted to discuss?”

Julian pours out his own cup and takes a sip before he responds. “I need someone to watch my back tonight. I’m planning a recognizance of PacSyn at the Port, and I wondered if you’d be interested. A little more fun than threatening shopkeeps, at least.”

Damn him, it would be. And La Contessa is determined that her son should control the port, so this would also allow me to gain her approval. But… “The Don prefers me to prove myself before I go out on any higher-level jobs. So regretfully?—”

“The Don agreed to my request to have you join me.” We lock eyes. Is he lying? If so, he’s very good at it. “You can ask him yourself, if you like,” Julian goes on.

“I’d prefer to hear it from the horse head’s mouth, so to speak,” I tell him with a roguish grin.

Julian slides his cell phone into the coffee table between us, taps a few buttons, and a moment later, Sandro’s irritated voice fills the room. “What is it?”

“Your old friend is here with me now. He doesn’t trust me,” Julian says, sitting back in his seat. His eyes, unblinking, don’t leave me.

“My old friend has no reason to trust you,” Sandro replies.

I have to smile at the response. “I just wanted to confirm your orders, Don Castellani,” I break in.

“Julian wanted backup. I offered you. The Lion has other duties tonight—and it will give you a chance to stretch your legs, Nero. You understand?”

“I understand.” I understand completely. This is another test—I am required to babysit the demented younger brother for the night. Sandro ends the call abruptly, which only confirms my impression that he prefers to speak to his brother as little as possible. I pick up my teacup and take a sip, savoring the taste of victory along with apple pie. “So what’s the plan?” I ask.

“Meet me at this location.” He slides a folded piece of paper across the coffee table. “At midnight.”

That seems early for the kind of mission he’s talking about, but I just nod. “We’re not going together?”

“I have things to do beforehand.” He studies me. “You can go now.”

I haven’t finished my tea, but I set it down and stand. “Until tonight, in that case.”

“Until tonight,” he says softly.

I will have to be on my guard. This man dislikes me—perhaps enough to kill me.