“It’s not my problem,” he beseeched me, opening his hands to the sky on a shrug, more expressive with his gestures than he was with his words.
“I think it is,” I argued. “I know you are afraid of the di Carlos, but they are fractured from Giuseppe’s death. Do you know who is being accused of killing him?”
“I stay out of this,” he reminded me angrily.
“Dante Salvatore,” I said, unfazed by his returned belligerence. “Have you heard of him, Ottavio? They call him the mafia lord, the Devil of New York City.”
“Don Salvatore,” he whispered, moving to clutch the small gold-plated cross he wore at his throat. “Yes, I know him.”
“He is a very scary man,” I agreed with his unspoken fear. “Have you seen his hands?” I held my own up and fisted it. “Each one is the size of a man’s head.”
Ottavio scowled at me, reading exactly what I was trying to do.
Illustrate just how much he was screwed if he did and screwed if he didn’t.
I smiled kindly at him, leaning forward on that creaking plastic to pat his hand comfortingly. “The way I see it, Signore Petretti, you could side with a fractured family, one that has much better things to focus on right now, or you could hitch your cart to the Salvatores. Earn their protection and admiration.”
“They’ll kill me,” he insisted, eyes darting to Ric for support even though the investigator couldn’t understand Italian.
“Maybe,” I agreed with a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose it’s a gamble. With whom are your odds of survival better?”
We stared at each other for a long moment, unblinking. A woman trundled down the hall to the mouth of the living room, her hair big and bouffant, her body thick and soft with curves.
“Who is this?” she asked her husband in Italian.
He waved his hand at her wearily, dismissively.
“Signore Petretti,” I said, moving in for the kill as I smiled at his wife. “How would you feel about a trip to your ancestral home? Where is your family from?”
“Pomigliano d’Arco,” he muttered.
“Well, when this is all said and done, I think you and the missus deserve a vacation. On us,” I offered.
Us.
Fields, Harding & Griffith.
Yara Ghorbani.
Don Dante Salvatore.
Me.
I’d used slightly unscrupulous tactics before. To be a lawyer was to know how to twist words and actions into the results you needed for victory.
But I’d never railroaded a man so succinctly, leaned on him the way a mafioso might with threats of violence.
It should have made me sick.
Once, before all this, before I made that promise to my sister to protect the brother of her heart, it might have given me indigestion or a sleepless night.
But I only felt bone-deep satisfaction and a hint of acute relief as I pulled the papers out of my bag for Ottavio to sign in order for him to act as a witness for us in court and handed them over to him. With only a brief glance at his wife, than another longer one at the photos of Cosima, he accepted the Mont Blanc pen I handed him next and signed on the dotted line.
When I accepted the papers back, I did it with a grin like a wolf, a distant howl ringing through my blood.
ELENA
“That was something else, Elena,” Ric said as we reached the Ferrari. “I’ve seen you in fighter mode before, but that shit was full-on gladiator.”
I laughed, a pleased flush in the cheeks that were pinned back by the force of my smile. “It felt good.”
“I love a ruthless woman. When you told him the size of Dante Salvatore’s hands…” Ric held his side as he laughed from his belly and then wiped a tear from his eye. “Bravissima, Elena.”
I blinked at Ric, then fisted my hands on my hips. “I’ve known you, what, four years? And you’ve never once let on you speak Italian.”
He winked at me. “And women are the only ones who can keep secrets? A man of mystery is a thing of beauty, no?”
I laughed at him, always put at ease by his self-confidence as if some of it rubbed off on me. “You have many talents.”
He shrugged with faux humility. “As do you. Yara will be pleased. Partnership, here you come.”
I hesitated for just a split second, my smile faltering.
Because honestly, I hadn’t been thinking of partnership in there.
There had only been one thing on my mind, and it was six foot five with thick black hair and the propensity to look at me as if I was the Mona Lisa, to be wondered at and admired.
Ric frowned at me, but I waved him off. “You’ll make sure he gets somewhere safe?”
There was no way in hell we would leave Ottavio to be picked off by the di Carlos or the prosecution. His testimony could mean the difference in winning or losing. Ric would transfer him to a safe house guarded by hired security until the trial. We still didn’t have a date, but the wheels were in motion, and we suspected a start time in the next few months.