Page 109 of Wounded King

Next, I call Edoardo.

"When is the meeting?" I demand the moment he answers.

There's a beat of silence, then, "I talked to Manetti," he says, his voice laced with that smug calm he always mistakes for control. Manetti is the Capo dei Capi in Vegas, Enzo's boss. "Sounds to me like you brought this shitstorm on all by yourself, Marcello. This is your mess. Clean it up."

I clench my jaw. The little shit actually sounds like a real Don for a change. It's laughable, but he did his homework. He's still pissing me off, though.

I sneer, "Did he say that before or after you got on your knees and begged him not to burn your little empire to the ground?"

"Careful," he warns, but there's no real heat behind it. Edoardo doesn't know how to bite—only bark.

"I've been careful," I snap. "Careful not to undermine the very structure you're too busy sipping wine to reinforce. While you were out rubbing elbows with cartel princes and pretending to be important, someone has tried to kill me three times, and now, the fucking Vegas family is breathing down my back."

"And that's somehowmyfault?" he fires back.

"Your fault is that you let the rot spread in our organization while you were too busy playing your own little games," I say. "And now your house is full of snakes, and I'm the only one with the balls to do something about it."

Silence.

"Where and when is the meeting?" I repeat, icing my voice.

"Tomorrow night. Manetti wants us in person. In Vegas."

I laugh out loud. "Yeah, that's not going to happen, and that's not the meeting I was talking about."

I'm not stupid enough to meet Manetti on his own turf; I don't care if he doesn't want to play over the phone. I'm sure he'd rather look a man in the eyes before he decides whether to cut his throat or shake his hand. It's a trait I can appreciate, but I'm not going to participate in that little game. Manetti is smart, ruthless, and a hell of a lot more competent than the idiot I'm currently talking to. And I'm not walking into a trap.

"Someone offed Fabio, my mother-in-law's bodyguard?—"

"Lover," I interrupt Edoardo.

He stays silent for a heartbeat or two, then continues without acknowledging my interruption, "We need to find out who did this."

"Why?" My question throws him off. "Why would I care about that when I'm trying to figure out who is after me?"

"Because it might be the same people." He sounds exasperated.

"Yeah, I don't think so. Have fun with that. I'll have my own meeting."

I cut the call. At least now I know they don't suspect that I'm behind Fabio's death. Or if they do, Edoardo's too much of a spineless shit to say it out loud. Margarita, though—she's a different story. She doesn't bluff, and she doesn't forget. That woman plays chess while the rest of them chase their own tails. If she suspects me, she'll come. Quiet, calculated, and without warning. Just like she's been doing for weeks now.

The next morning…

"Luciano is bringing your friend over," Marcello announces the next morning.

"Pippa?" I squeal.

"The one and only," Marcello smirks at me through the mirror.

He has just taken a shower and is standing in front of the vanity, applying eau de cologne to his clean-shaven face. God, can this man be any more gorgeous?

He's naked except for the granite gray towel wrapped around his slim hips, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest. His wounds have healed, leaving behind a few red scars that blend with other, older, lighter ones.

"I got this for you." He picks up a sleek black card from the vanity and hands it to me. Violet Orsi is printed on the front in gold letters, followed by numbers.

"Pretty optimistic forward planning," I grin, staring at it.

"It's your credit card. It doesn't have a limit." He explains, turning to me.