Val ignored Vittorio, his eyes on Emmanuelle’s face. “I’m asking for a few minutes of your time, for a chance to stop a war between our two families.”
Emmanuelle held up her hand to stop her brothers from closing in. “That will be the only thing we talk about, Val,” she decreed.
She moved a few feet away from her brothers, but sent them an imploring look, making certain they were close in case she might need them.
“We had nothing to do with those deaths, Emme. Nothing. Giuseppi would have come to tell you himself but Mom—Greta—has taken a turn for the worse. I’m heading there as soon as I’m done talking with you, but it was important for you to know, to believe us, that we aren’t starting a war. We don’t know who’s doing this any more than you do.”
“I’m very sorry about Greta. I know she’s been a wonderful mother to you, Val,” Emmanuelle said sincerely. “As for the dead bodies turning up in our dumpsters, every one of them was a friend. Bruno? Bruno Vitale? His grandmother has no one now. He was a kid.”
“My point, Emme. Giuseppi doesn’t order hits on kids. And they aren’t tortured and wrapped in carpets and put in dumpsters. I don’t know who is doing this, but someone wants a war between our two families.”
“They were all working for your family,” she pointed out quietly. She gave another flick of her eyes over her shoulder to ensure her brothers were close. It was only at that moment that she seemed to be aware he hadn’t let her arm go. She took a step back. “Stefano gave your father the list and proof.”
Val pulled her closer to him. “Stop that. Don’t piss me off any more than I already am. This is important. Yes, they maybe worked for my family. We have people on the inside, you have people on the inside, it’s an accepted practice, which is why, if they get caught, no one kills them. They don’t know anything. That’s the way it works. You know that, Emme.”
She was silent a moment and she’d quit fighting his hold on her. Val had managed to pull her almost into his body. Vittorio took a step closer. His brothers followed his example. Dario stepped directly in front of Taviano, stopping him. Vittorio signaled Taviano, who had a notorious temper, to stand down.
Val was right. The subject matter was too important to stop the talk before they could all hear what he had to say. He’d made a good point. Not one of the men employed by the Ferraros or working in the neighborhood taking money from the Saldis would be privy to any information on the Saldi crime empire. Not a single one. So why were they killed? And why be tortured? If it wasn’t the Saldis starting a war, who was it?
“You have a valid point,” Emmanuelle conceded. “I know you have to get back to Giuseppi and Greta immediately. I’ll take what you said to Stefano and he’ll be in touch.”
She turned as if to go, but Val tightened his fingers around her wrist. “I’m not finished, princess. You heard something you shouldn’t have, and you refuse to let me explain.”
Emmanuelle turned white. “Let go of me right now, Valentino. Don’t count on the fact that I don’t like public scenes. I don’t want to be anywhere near you. You had your fun. You followed your orders and you were damn good at seduction. Of course, it probably wasn’t that difficult. I was sixteen. I should have let my family kill you.”
“Do you feel better now? We’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t listen. That man you were with isn’t going to do a thing for you and you know it. I want you to meet with me, just the two of us . . .”
Emmanuelle looked over her shoulder, her eyes pleading with her brothers to save her. Vittorio would never forget that look as long as he lived. Emmanuelle was so in love with Valentino Saldi, she feared, even after everything she’d heard him say—that he didn’t love her, didn’t want her, that he’d seduced her following orders from his father—she wouldn’t be able to resist his demand.
Vittorio moved instantly, mowing down the bodyguard who stepped in front of him. Nothing would stop him from getting to his sister.Grace entered the kitchen and found total chaos. Rene Bisset, the head chef, was yelling at two of the waiters at the top of his lungs, switching from English to French periodically. The two waiters clearly were denying that they were the ones who had smashed all the dishes. The windows were broken, and food and the broken pieces of hundreds of plates were everywhere. The counters, the walls and the floor weren’t spared.