Chapter 39 39

Chapter 39 39

“These are Marco and Dante,” Silas murmured as he motioned to each man in turn. "My most trusted men. They are not salaried by Moretti."

Isabella nodded, thankful for the little bit of comfort. At least these men would not be carrying word of their movements to the enemy.

And then she saw Giovanni, standing in the doorway of his office. Her breath caught. Their eyes locked in the foyer, and he was wearing that mask but she could feel the smoulder of his gaze. It seared through her, like fire.

He moved through the foyer in cautious increments, one step at a time. The guards unconsciously moved apart a little, feeling the hunt in his step. Giovanni ground to a halt right in front of Isabella and she could smell his cologne morphed with something smokier, more masculine. Near enough that she felt the warmth of his powerful form.

"You don't have to do this," he said softly. His voice was low-pitched, for her ears alone. “If there’s nothing, no evidence, I will have pushed you away for nothing.”

"And if we find something?" Isabella asked. She had to look up, with her head tilted back, to see him properly. "And if we prove Moretti's been lying?”

Giovanni’s hand rose, resting near her face but not quite on it. The gesture was tentative, vulnerable in a way she had seldom seen from him. “Then for fourteen years I have believed it to be a lie. And I’ll have to live with that.”

His voice fell even more, coarse with emotion he seemed to be reining in. "But Isabella, be careful. Moretti is dangerous. If he believes that you’re doing anything—"

"I know," Isabella interrupted. Something reckless happened to her then, something she would almost certainly regret. She put up her hand and held his, pressing it to her cheek. His glove was old, and soft leather, warmed from his skin below. "I will be careful. I promise."

Giovanni's breath caught. She heard it and felt the rush through his entire body. His thumb stroked the curve of her cheekbone, the touch absurdly gentle not least when layered with the barrier of his glove. It was so different from that brutal Don everyone else feared, the tenderness he gave only to her.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Risking yourself for me?"

“For the reason that you deserve the truth,” Isabella replied, plain and simple. She met his eyes, willing him to comprehend. “Because 14 years of your life were taken. Because—"
She stopped, unable to finish. The remainder of them lodged in her throat. Because I am falling for you. For when I see you and that look in your eyes, I see the both the boy who lost everything and the man he's trying to rediscover. Because once you kissed my hand and I have never stopped thinking of that.

Giovanni read her mind, it seemed to her. His amber eyes behind the mask grew shadowed with something that set her pulse to racing. His other hand swept at her waist, taking her closer one step at a time. The thrust took ages, allowing her time to back off if she chose.

She did not want to.

They were in the foyer. Silas and the guards were looking on. It didn’t matter to either of them.
“Isabella,” Giovanni said, and as he spoke her name was both prayer and warning. "After this, after whatever we find today, we need to talk. About what this is, between us. Whether it’s real or just —”

"Just what?" Isabella challenged. Her hand was still resting on top of his over her cheek.
"Trauma? Convenience? Stockholm syndrome?"

"I have no idea," Giovanni chuckled. His brow would have been against hers were it not for the mask. They were that close. "But I need to know. Because if it’s real, if what I feel when I’m with you is real, then everything gets even more complicated than it already is.”

Isabella began to reply, but Silas coughed loudly. But a sound broke their bubble.

"We need to go," Silas said. His lined face was sympathetic but firm. "The longer we dither, the more time Moretti has to make a move on us."

Giovanni let go of Isabella unwillingly, and took a step back. But he never took his eyes off her face, following every movement as though memorizing her form.

"Come back to me," he said. His voice was rough, unsteady. "Whatever you find, come back."

It was not a command. It was a plea. And that was all the difference.

When they arrived, the gallery appeared to be in normal order. Too normal. As Marco pulled the car into a spot, Isabella's instincts were singing like sirens. The street was quiet. No unusual cars. No suspicious figures loitering nearby. All appeared to be in order.

That was what frightened her.

"Something is off," she murmured when they got out of the car.

"I know," Silas agreed. His hand was on the gun underneath his jacket. "Stay alert. Marco, Dante, positions."

The other guards stepped up to form a line on either side as they neared the gallery door. Isabella fumbled a little to open it. The comforting scent of paint and canvas had embraced her. And for a moment, she was taken back to the days where her greatest worry was what price to set for something new that she acquired.

The painting was exactly where it belonged, hanging in her private office. Isabella’s father smiled out at her from the canvas, so fixed in time and unaging, always young and strong. Her eyes stung with tears, but she blinked them back. There would be time to mourn later.

They worked quickly. Marco kept watch at the door while Dante helped Silas to take down one of the paintings. Isabella observed them as they slowly removed the backing, her heart slamming against her chest with such force she was certain it would leave bruises on her ribs.
And there, taped to the back of the canvas, was a tiny USB drive.

” “He did grow something,” Silas muttered. His own grey eyes widened in vindication and grief.

They crowded Isabella's desk, gathering close to Silas's shoulder as he put the drive into her laptop. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the files started popping up on screen. Videos. Audio recordings. Documents. Evidence piled high in boxes and on shelves, so much that Isabella grew dizzy from seeing it all.

Silas double-clicked on the first video file. It was slow to load, and then Lorenzo Vinci popped up on screen.

Isabella’s air hitched in her throat. Her father looked haggard, terrified. His chestnut hair was disheveled and his gray eyes had been reddened either by crying or sleeplessness, or a combination of both. This was a video that had been made right towards the end of his life. She saw it in the lifeless look in his eyes.

“Isabella,” he said, and she had to grab her lip with her teeth to keep from crying at the sound of his voice again. "If you are seeing this, then I am dead. And you need to know why did what I did. Why I assisted in murdering Giovanni Genovese’s family. Why I have lived with this feeling of guilt for fourteen years.”

The video continued. Lorenzo spoke unsteadily telling everything in an agitated voice. How Mr. Moretti offered me a job. Witnessed… Moretti showed him extensive surveillance photos taken of 13 year-old Isabella at school, at the gallery and In residence. Photos that shot through Moretti’s knowledge of everything she did, every move she made, every habit, no matter how private or embarrassing.

How Moretti made it clear that Lorenzo had two options. Join the hit on the Genovese or watch his daughter die.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness,” Lorenzo said, tears streaming down his face this time in full view on screen. "What I did was unforgivable. I helped murder a family. I destroyed lives. But Giovanni, if you happen to be watching this with my daughter – it was your boy Moretti who put out the call… Moretti planned everything. Moretti hired the crew. And he’s been using you to kill anyone who knew what really happened.”

The video ended. Silence filled the office. Isabella's sobs were silent and streams of tears flowed from her face. Silas appeared grave; his teeth were set close. Marco and Dante gave each other a significant look as they both seemed to be digesting the events of moments before.

“Leatherface is our man,” Silas whispered. "This is proof. This is—"

The front window of the gallery blew inward.

The glass broke everywhere, in a lethal cascade across the floor. The gunfire erupted instantly, the sounds of chaos and war up close in a small space. Marco drew and snapped back a shot, the gun seeming to materialize in his hand out of thin air. He pulled Isabella and threw her to the floor behind the desk.

"Stay down!" he shouted over the noise.

More glass shattered. Bullets that ripped through the walls left clouds of plaster dust swirling. Isabella dropped prostrate on the floor and covered her head with her hands. The USB drive cut into her hand as she gripped it tightly.

"How many?" Silas shouted. Now he was out with his own gun, methodically firing toward the broken window.

"At least six!" Marco yelled back. "Professional crew! They are not here to talk!"

Gunfire on the beach left Isabella's ears ringing. Amid the chaos, she heard men yelling in Italian. Orders to find the evidence. To destroy it. To kill them all, who had seen it.

"We need to move!" Silas caught her arm, yanking her up and keeping low. "Back exit! Now!"

They scurried, hunched over, desks and displays for cover. Dante was giving him cover, his expression grim and intent. They were halfway down to the gallery when Isabella heard a sound that made her blood freeze.
If only it weren't so easy to hear Fabrizio's screams of terror from behind his workbench. Her young, innocent assistant caught up in a war he did not understand.

"We cannot leave him!" Isabella attempted to disentangle herself from Silas, but he held her in an iron grip.

"We have to! If they get that drive, your father has died in vain!”

More gunfire. Something blew up with a big bang. The gallery began filling with smoke. Not in fire, but in grenades. Acrid smoke hung in the air, filling Isabella’s eyes and throat.

She could not see Silas in the commotion. His hand was torn from her arm by the crowd, the smoke, and frenzy. She half-fell into the grey fog, the USB drive clutched to her breast as if it was her heart.

Because it was. It was proof. It was justice. It was her father's legacy.

Isabella could not see anything. Could not breathe properly. The smoke was too thick. She still heard gunfire, heard shouting, heard running footsteps in every direction.

Suddenly someone seized her from behind. A hand clamped her mouth closed and a scream strangled in the night. An arm around her waist, hoisting her up into the air. Isabella fought, beat about and struggled but the grasp was of iron. Whoever had her was stronger than she was, far more skilled.

Terror flooded through her. This was it. Moretti's men had her. They would take the drive. They would kill her. Her father would not have died in vain.

Then a voice, that oh so familiar voice, whispered frantically into her ear and impossible welcome rough on the edges.

"Stop fighting. It is me."
Giovanni. He was here. He had come for her.