Page 65 of Wounded King

Icy blue eyes regard me thoughtfully. For a second or two, he twirls his sunglasses between his fingers, daring me to rip them from his grip. With a sudden grunt, he flicks the glasses to the side and leans forward, pressing a number on his phone.

I glare at him while he waits for someone to pick up. After a moment, he hangs up and dials a different number. "Dre, where the fuck is Raffael?"

Whatever the guy on the other end is saying makes Stephano narrow his eyes. He hangs up and looks at me, "What makes you think Raffael is involved?"

I hold up a finger, "He was at the hospital the day Sophia visited me." I hold up a second finger, "to get his arm stitched up." I pull out the hospital report Luciano got for me. It states that Raffael cut himself peeling a potato. The cut wasn't deep and only needed six stitches. There was no reason in hell for him to go to the hospital. Fuck, I've stitched up larger cuts myself. Not to mention, how the hell do you cut yourarmwith a potato peeler?

Stephano shakes his head. "He's supposed to be in Puerto La Cruz."

"He's not in Venezuela." I show Stephano a few photos with time stamps of him lurking and watching Sophia.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You think he's involved?"

"I think someone's pulling strings. And your guy looks good for it."

He rubs his jaw as the tension finally cracks through his cool exterior. "I swear to you, Marcello, I didn't know. If he's gone rogue, I'll take care of it."

I nod once. "If he hurt her—if he eventouchedher—he's yours for five minutes. After that, he's mine."

Stephano meets my stare head-on. "Understood."

The silence stretches between us. Birds chirp somewhere beyond the glass walls. The scent of citrus from his garden drifts in like a taunt through a half-open window.

"You think Carlos and Edoardo are involved?" Stephano asks.

"I don't see any reason why he would want his son-in-law dead. And Edoardo…" My jaw tightens. "The two of them have been tight lately, ever since Enrico killed Giovanni." I shake my head. "I don't know what to think right now. I know Fabio's name came up…"

Stephano looks startled. "Margarita's Fabio?"

"The one and only," I mutter.

A beat passes before he says. "Margarita's name keeps popping up."

I nod, "Her and the fucking Venezuelans. But I'll be damned if I know yet how they fit together."

"You talked to Toni?" He changes the subject, since neither of us knows anything, and it's futile to speculate without much evidence.

"Not yet. Soon. If we're still moving forward with the plan, he needs to be in the loop."

"We're still on," Stephano says. "Carlos rots in jail, Edoardo gets cut out, and the family resets."

"Without traitors," I say. "Without old ghosts."

He lifts his cup in a silent toast, waiting for me to raise mine.

"I'll keep you updated," he says. "If Raffael contacts anyone in my crew, I'll know. I'll also put word out that I want him."

"You better."

I rise, pain flaring through my hip, but I keep my spine straight. Weakness is a luxury I don't have—not anymore.

As I turn to leave, Stephano calls after me. "Marcello."

I pause.

"I hope she's still alive."

I nod tightly. If anybody knows what I'm going through, it's him. His younger brother vanished a few years ago and is presumed dead. Having your own blood go missing is bad enough, but waiting years for answers? I'd probably go insane. No wonder he turned to computers; if there's any trace to be found of Nico, it'd be somewhere in cyberspace. I don't respond, but I knock my fist against the doorframe in acknowledgement. I'm not ready for commiseration about sibling loss. I just walk out. Because I'm not sure what I hope for at this point. If she's still alive, it could very well mean a world of hurt for her. Also, hope is for people who can afford to lose. And I've already lost too fucking much.