Page 94 of Hate to Love You
So, we needed to get there first, in hopes of finding him, and getting him to explain what had happened.
We do a casual screen of the apartment, from a neighboring block, and using Lev’s drone we found it dark, and seemingly vacant.
“Let’s go see if they’re home,” I say anxiously, pulling up the hood around my head.
We park on a neighboring street and make our way into the building from the back exit to avoid the cameras. However, when we eventually make our way upstairs, Cal makes me aware of the fact that the security cameras in the hall have all been sprayed with spray paint.
“Someone came here for them,” he says, as the two of us simultaneously pull out our guns and cautiously make our way down the hallway. “And they were professionals.”
His assessment is confirmed as we reach the door to Stefania’s apartment and find it ajar.
“Don’t touch anything,” I whisper using my elbow to open it.
My stomach twists. But nothing could’ve prepared us for what we find the moment we push the door to her penthouse open.
It’s a bloodbath. Or at least it was.
Right there in the center of the expensively decorated living room, the stiff bodies of Alberto’s security staff, and Stefania’s maid, lay slumped on a giant Persian rug. Their mouths are gagged, their hands are tied behind their backs…and they each have a hole in the back of their head.
“Well, you were definitely right,” I whisper carefully, unsure if Stefania had her own security cameras, or Bluetooth speakers set to record. “They were professionals. Because this wasn’t a home invasion.”
“No, Boss,” Cal mumbles gruffly, staring off into the room to my left. “This was an execution.”
As I turn the corner, I am met with a horrific sight. There, seated across from each other at Stefania’s giant maple dining room table, are the happy couple.
They were each tied to one of her taupe cashmere dining room chairs, and their throats had been slit. The white walls are splattered with spray patterns that could only come from their severed jugular arteries, and their lifeless bodies now sit in a puddle of their own blood.
The oddest part, however, is that in stark contrast to the gruesomely messy scene, between them both, sits two flowers in a small glass vase.
“No blood splatter,” Cal says quietly, motioning to the bright pale pink flowers. “How is that possible?”
“Because they were placed there after the murder,” I nod, covering my face to snuff out the strong stench of death that permeates the room. “This was a hit. And that is a message.”
Hours later I sit alone in my darkened penthouse, staring at the gas fireplace with a bottle of vodka in my hand. Caesar lays at my feet, napping peacefully.
The events of the day still don’t feel real.
However, the news confirmed for me that the bomb at Alberto’s was real. And so was the massacre at his mistress’s house, which surprisingly had come to police’s attention just a few hours after Cal and I had discreetly left the premises.
And yet, neither of these things are nagging at me as much as the uncomfortable thought that perhaps this wasn’t all just an “unfortunate incident,” or home invasion gone wrong, as the newscasters were saying on television tonight.
No, on some level, I know that that bomb at the restaurant today had been meant for one person: me. And it was unsettling.
Perhaps it’s because I didn’t see this coming, and being who I am, I make every effort to not just be in the know, but to stay ahead of it. It’s not enough for me to just know this city’s dark and dangerous secrets, I need to see them coming a mile away.
Cal and I hadn’t said much on the way home, but we did discuss the possible motives behind such a violent act. Al wasn’t just a Michelin-rated chef, or a longtime friend. He was a high-ranking representative for the Sicilian mafia.
While many assume New York’s long and bloody history with the various factions of the Italian mafias is a thing of the past, those of us still involved in the underground know different. They still have a seat at the table, even if the balance of power has shifted to be an ongoing battle between us and the Irish.
The issue is that my relationship with Al was what had tied the Sicilians into our side of the war. And given that Cal and I were unable to find Al’s phone in the apartment, I have to at least entertain the idea that Al and his mistress were murdered before the bomb at his restaurant…because they knew exactly when I would be there.
And now, me fleeing the restaurant with Abby mere minutes before the bomb went off could look incredibly suspicious to the Sicilians, who obviously take revenge to a new level.
Now the only thing I could hope to do was get ahead of those suspicions and meet with the rest of their leadership.
Or things could, and would, get very messy, very quickly.
And then there was Abigail Wayne. My little fox.