“He’s just trying to protect himself and his brother,” I tell Noah, but I feel a sadness inside me. Because no matter what, I will always be the sister of the men who killed Cristiano’s family.
15
Cristiano
The expression on Charlie’s face is a grim one as he walks into my study.
“It’s late,” I say, looking at my watch although I know what time it is. He’s made a point of arriving when no one else would be here. “Whiskey?”
“Yeah,” he says, surprising me. He doesn’t drink when doing business and there’s no doubt this is business. He sets the thick envelope he brought with him on the desk, unbuttons the button of his tailor-made suit and takes a seat. “A double.”
I study him as I pour a glass for him and refresh mine. Something has him ruffled. He was one of the people Dante called when he found us that morning after the massacre. I still think about that. About what it must have been like for my brother to be greeted by that horror.
He’d gone out the night before. Snuck off the island to meet a girl when he was supposed to be at home. He told me he hadn’t been able to make sense of what he was seeing because he wasn’t sure if it was all the alcohol. If he was still drunk. If that’s why he retched so badly.
I wonder if it’s the deaths themselves or finding us like we were that did the most damage. I’d bet the latter.
He doesn’t talk about it. He’s never talked about it.
“Is Dante around?” Charlie asks. The timing strikes me considering my thoughts.
I shake my head. “He went to bed.”
“That’s good.” His face is grave. Charlie is Dante’s godfather. He’s always been good to him. To both of us. I know he worries, too, about Dante’s state of mind at having been the one to find us. Sometimes I wonder what he’ll do when this is over. When revenge is taken. What’s next for my little brother? Is there anything? Or is he like me? Like I had been until only very recently.
“Here you go,” I hand Charlie a tumbler and take my seat behind the desk.
He holds his glass up in a toast that I know isn’t a happy one. Charlie’s in his late forties now. His thick dark hair has a single, wide gray patch at his temple. He’s had it as long as I can remember, and it makes him look distinguished.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“No, you’re not.”
He opens the large envelope and pulls out the thick stack of papers inside. From here I can see bundles clipped together made up of photographs, sheets of paper and even some newspaper clippings.
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
He smiles but it’s half-hearted. He extends the pages out to me and I reluctantly take them. I only glance down quickly before shifting my gaze back to his.
I feel the tattoo I’d drunkenly carved onto my arm burn. I knew this was coming, didn’t I? It’s why I asked in the first place.
“Those are the names you asked me to look into.”
I breathe. Try to manage the tension growing inside me.
I know what he’s going to say. I’ve suspected it on some level. But I’m still not ready for it.
“Those people,” he gestures to the stack. “They all have exactly one thing in common.”
I remain silent still.
“They’d made an enemy of your uncle.”
I drop the stack and get to my feet, shaking my head. “You’re wrong.”
Turning to the window, I look out onto the water. I wish I could be out there. Out there with her. I wish I could hold her and listen to the waves with her and not have any of this other shit going on.
“You’re wrong,” I repeat, turning to face him again. Although I’ve never thought Charlie and David enemies, they are not friends. They never were.
“I’m not wrong and you know it. It’s taken me over a year to get this together. I’ve been diligent, considering who he is to you.”
I turn to him. “You hate him. It’s no secret.”
“No, that’s not a secret.”
“Why?”
“Look through it, Cristiano.”
I pick up my whiskey and swallow the contents of the glass, feel it burn down my throat.
“Go on,” he insists. “You suspected it. It’s why you asked me to look into it. Look at them,” he says.
“My uncle saved my life. He could have let me die.”
“He’s using you. He’s always used you.”
I slam a fist into the desk. “He saved my fucking life!”
He stands, leans over the desk to reach the pages, turns them so he can sort through them.
“I’ll start at the most recent,” he says, unperturbed. Charlie isn’t a violent man. He’s an attorney. But he’s not afraid of me.
I don’t look directly at the bundles as he lays them out but the first set of names I recognize at quick glance. The latest couple.