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CHAPTER FOUR

Enzo

It might be convenient to believe the Rossis are behind the warehouse attack, but it doesn’t make sense. The shocked look on Valentina’s face when I walked in there today was enough for me to realize she had no idea.

That, and the simple fact that the Rossis wouldn’t attack the Romanos unprovoked.

That leads me back to The8. Of course, it’s possible it’s another family or even some bored teenagers, but The8 is really getting on my nerves.

I finish up my last lap and pull myself out of the pool, shivering at the frosty air. Although the rooftop pool is heated, it’s not enclosed, meaning I have to freeze my nips off getting in and out every morning.

I cocoon myself in a giant velvet robe and slide my feet into a pair of slippers. My brain is moving a mile a minute, trying to sort out all the new information.

As the elevator takes me back down to my penthouse, I check my messages. A few updates from Jack, telling me they’ve reached the warehouse upstate. A video message from Lux and her adorable daughter, Rosie, playing in the snow.

I freeze as the elevator pings open.

A new message from The8.

I click it open with excitement, hoping for something that might reveal their identity. My excitement deflates when I see it’s a series of numbers that don’t make any sense.

89 111 117 32 98 117 114 110 101 100 32 105 116 32 100 111 119 110 32 116 104 101 110 46 32 73 32 98 117 114 110 32 105 116 32 100 111 119 110 32 110 111 119 46

Random numbers? No, nothing this person does is random.

I head to the shower and scour my brain, trying to remember different codes I might have learned. The only thing that might make sense is ASCII code—a standard format used to share files between computers on different devices and networks.

In my sudden enthusiasm to crack the code, I toss the towel on the floor and run butt-naked to my small home office. I plop down at the desk and boot up my laptop.

My ASCII knowledge is a bit rusty, but that’s what the internet is for. My fingers tingle with anticipation as I quickly find a conversion table and scribe down the letters.

You burned it down then. I burn it down now.

“What the hell?” I wonder out loud. That’s definitely a direct connection to the warehouse attack, which means the Rossis are innocent.

The first sentence confuses me—unless these messages are meant for Rafael? He’s been known to burn down a few things in the past. Maybe this entire time, The8 has unknowingly been sending me messages meant for him.

I think back to the tumultuous events that brought him and Lux together last year and wonder if it might be connected to that.

Wandering back to the bathroom, I locate my phone and dial his number. He takes an annoyingly long time to answer.

“Enzo, didn’t I fire you?” he finally grumbles, sleep slurring his speech.

“No, in fact, you promoted me and bought me a two-million-dollar car,” I shoot back, grinning despite myself.

“You need to go read that contract again,” he huffs. “Each time you call me at five in the morning, I withdraw one million dollars from your bank account.”

“For what reason?”

“Emotional damage. Now what the hell do you want?”

“May I remind you how mean you were to me?—”

“I’m hanging up now, Enzo.”

“No, wait, fine, fine.” I laugh, trying to get back into professional mode. Rafael’s grumbling, grumpy vibe just brings out the worst in me sometimes. I can’t help but tease him. “Have you ever burned down a warehouse, business, home, or some such structure?”

“Are you kidding me?” he barks. I can hear sheets rustling. “That’s how I spent half my time in the mafia. What are you on about?”

“I’ve been getting weird messages almost every day this week,” I admit. “I thought they might be for you.”

“Tell me more,” he says, suddenly alert. I can imagine him sitting up in bed, that stoic this-means-business look on his face.

Technically, Rafael is still involved with the Romanos, but at his wife’s urging, he only handles the legal side of things. Although he’s still an infinite pool of knowledge whenever I’m stumped by something crime related.

“They’re being sent in code form,” I explain, putting him on speaker and tugging on some clean clothes. “First it was HEX, then Morse, and now it’s ASCII. The signature always says The8. Make any sense of that?”

“Have you told the uncles?”

“Honestly, no. There’s been a lot going on lately.”

“The warehouse attack?” he asks, his voice grim. I hear him wrestling with Lux’s fancy Smeg coffee maker, and his voice fades for a second, replaced by cursing and banging.

“Yeah, we thought it might be the new family in town… the Rossis.” I hesitate, knowing Rafael knows my entire history. “But the last message from The8 confirms it was their doing.”

The line is silent for a second, and I wonder if I lost him to his high-tech appliance hell. Finally, he clears his throat, and I brace myself for the question.

“Did you see her?”

“I did. She's actually head of the Rossis now.”

“And?”

“Well, she definitely hates me,” I say lightly, forcing myself to laugh. “Maybe even more now that I’ve accused her of attacking our shit.”

“That was pretty dumb,” he grumbles. “Listen, if you need any help with any of this…”

“I know, thanks.” I sigh, clicking off the call. I decide to check in at the office downtown and see if anyone has any more information.

Dragging Rafael into this when Lux is so against the mafia is the last thing I want to do.

A few of the younger cousins are hanging around the office, gossiping about the warehouse attack. I thoroughly interrogate them, but no one has any news.

The Romano offices take up an entire floor of an enormous skyscraper downtown. I never understood why they even bother with this place, but Rafael assures me it helps the family maintain a legitimate front.

I stroll into the giant corner office with my name on the door and head straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The weak February sunshine streams in, trying its best to brighten the place up, but my mood is in the dumps.

Seeing Valentina again has been a fantasy of mine for years. And now that it’s happened, I can’t get her off my mind.

I smile, remembering the day I first met her. I’d just finished my computer science degree, but I was already deep into the world of hacking and working with criminals.

They paid better, and the work was more entertaining, so when Lev Rossi reached out, I agreed to an interview.

He invited me to their Los Angeles compound one sunny afternoon in June. When I pulled up at the front door, it swung open to reveal the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

Deep blue eyes, long dark waves falling over her shoulders, and that look in her eyes—delicate and hard at the same time. I fell in love with Valentina right then and there.

Her father hired me, of course, but one of his clauses was to avoid “developing personal relationships with his family.” We didn’t care, though. I chuckle, remembering how we used to sneak around.

My reverie is broken by my assistant bustling into the room. I shake my head to clear it of these stupid nostalgic thoughts and sit down at my desk.

We spend the next hour in a conference call with Rafael, covering updates on the legal side of the business. When my assistant finally leaves, I immediately open my laptop and search for Valentina’s name.

I fall into a black hole of research, learning everything the Rossis have been up to since Lev threatened me and forced me to keep away from her. And I’ve kept my distance, no matter how tempting it was to try to stay updated on her life.

I wanted to reach out to her when I was ready—strong enough that her father could do nothing about it. I also wanted to keep hope alive, to pretend she hadn’t moved on with her life while I was away.

But now she’s here, and there’s no reason to hold back. Within hours, I’ve hacked into the Rossis’ servers and pored over every email I could get my hands on.

Her father is indeed faking his own death. Interesting.

I read a few more, cringing at how the family seems to talk down to Valentina and cheering when I see her secure a great business deal. When I finally snap out of my research wormhole, my eyes are burning. Since the emails are more business-related than anything, her personal life is still a mystery to me.

Is she married? Single? Does she have kids? Does she still practice ballet and read poetry books, and sing really badly when she’s happy?

My fingers reach for my phone involuntarily, and before I know it, I’m dialing her number and pressing call.

One ring and I still don’t realize what I’m doing. Two rings and I panic. Three rings and?—

“Hello?”

I freeze at the sound of her voice. She sounds husky, like she’s been crying. The urge to destroy whoever or whatever made her sad claws at me.

“Lenny?” I whisper, not knowing what else to say. The line is silent for a second, but I can hear feet shuffling and a door closing softly.

“Why are you calling?” she whispers back. “How’d you get this number?”

“Oh, you know, the genius hacking thing…” I trail off lamely.

“Right.” Her voice is hard now. “So, you’ve probably hacked the, I don’t know, mainframe or something, and are now watching me through the security cameras, right?”

“Yeah,” I snort, “can you flash some shoulder or something? Getting kind of bored over here.”

“This isn’t funny, Enzo.”

We sit in silence for a few seconds, all the things unsaid between us swirling through the line, threatening to burst out. I don’t even know why I called her.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I finally admit. She lets out a heavy sigh, and I can hear her fingers nervously tapping on some surface nearby.

“You made your decision six years ago,” she says, her voice tired and empty. “There’s no point in doing this now.”

“He threatened me, Lenny.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “with three million dollars. Must have been a tough choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, the cool three million you accepted in exchange for staying away?” she grits out. “I waited for you, Enzo. I spent years wondering what the hell was so wrong with me that you’d just disappear like that.”

“Lenny, I didn’t?—”

“You don’t have to pretend,” she snaps. “I found the check.”

The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone, open-mouthed. She thinks her father paid me off to leave her alone? What a sick, twisted bastard. If only she knew the truth.

I instantly redial the number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try again and again and eventually give up, accepting that she probably blocked my number.

Heartbroken, angry, and no closer to figuring anything out than I was this morning, I eventually head down to the garage.

Even breaking the speed limit on my short drive home doesn’t lift my spirits. As I get into the elevator, my phone lights up with a message. Nervously, I open the app, hoping it’s not another brain twister from The8.

When I see it’s just my doorman informing me he brought a package upstairs, I let go of the breath I’d been holding.

Lux has recently gotten into making jam and has been telling me she’d courier a box over to the penthouse for me to try. Well, at least I’ll sail the high of a sugar rush before I pass out tonight.

I head straight for the small, unmarked package sitting on the entryway table and grab it on my way to the kitchen.

Weird, you’d think a bunch of jars would be heavier than this.

I place it on the marble kitchen island and study the package. No address, no markings—it’s almost suspiciously clean.

Knowing Lux, she would have absolutely spilled something on the box by accident or covered it in little drawings and stickers. A wave of nausea cascades over me.

Something feels off about this.

I consider calling in reinforcements, but then decide I’ll look like a madman if there really is a jar of homemade blackberry jam inside. Carefully, I pull off the twine wrapped around the box and lift up one flap.

Something black and plastic sits inside.

Curious, I pull open the other flap and stare at the device. I take in the wires, buttons, and empty timer and realize I’m looking at a bomb.

I almost panic and run out of the penthouse, but after a second look, I see it’s defused. A small scrap of paper catches my eye, and I tug it free.

Her next birthday is sure to be a blast!

The letters are neatly scrawled in black ink above the signature I knew was bound to be there: The8 . But whose birthday?

I think hard, trying to remember the birth dates of every woman in my life. Truth be told, there’s only Lux and Valentina, and neither of their birthdays are any time soon.

Still, this is a clear message. Whoever’s targeting me is also targeting someone else I know, and I have no idea how to connect all this information before it’s too late.