Page 61 of Ruthless Daddy
He turned, then, face open and raw in a way I hadn’t seen in years. “Pi,” he said. “It’s been two years since you even talked to a woman. I have been waiting. Hoping. But at least you talked to me. Now, since you started guarded Angela, you don’t say a word. Tell me. I’m worried about you.”
I looked past him, at the city skyline, and picked my words like they were glass on a plate. “I’m in love with her, Tonio.” It hurt to say it, but it was a good hurt, like air on a healed wound. “It’s the dynamic Marco lives. I asked him for help. She signed the contract. It’s better than anything I’ve felt since before.”
Tonio’s face did something I hadn’t seen since we were kids. He grinned, wide and bright, but then it faded into a kind of private happiness, quieter, the joy of a man who’d hoped for you for a long time and finally got proof you might make it. “You are really in love?” he said, voice low. “Like—crazy, movie kind?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He gripped the back of his neck, squeezed once. “You know, I always thought you’d do this first. Before me. You were the one who loved first, Pi. Even when we were children.” He laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was proud.
I shrugged, felt heat rise under my collar. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Who would I tell?” He looked up, then said, “Are you honest with her about everything?”
I didn’t even blink. “Yes.”
He studied my face for a second, then nodded once, slow. “That’s good, fratello. That’s all I wanted. And she feels the same?”
“I think so.”
“Five days? It’s been five fucking days and he’s in love!” The smile on his face was warm and broad; a reminder of why I loved him. Tonio loved life, loved me, loved everyone. He was a nightmare, but he was our nightmare.
He reached out, clapped my shoulder, and turned back toward the house. “Come on. Dante will have us sweeping the whole city if we’re not back on time.”
He left. Olimpo rolled, let out a long huff, and crawled up to my feet. I knelt, scratched behind his ears, let him lean his enormous head into my palm.
When we came back in, the table had reset: mugs topped off, biscotti replenished, folders realigned to the inch. Marco was already back in his chair, phone face-down, the look on his face the one he wore when a plan had finally landed where he wanted it. Dante stood at the window, watching nothing, and Salvatore was in his usual spot, hands folded, as if he’d never left.
Olimpo flopped under the table and let out a groan. The noise echoed.
Dante didn’t sit. He kept his hands in his pockets and waited until the last of us was settled.
Salvatore reached into his folder and slid a single piece of paper down the table. It came to a stop in front of Dante.
“So. Important work.” He sighed. “It’s Valenti. Enzo. He’s bought the Halberd contract.”
The room went dead quiet.
My pulse throbbed in my temple with anger. Trust Sal to fucking wait, patiently, while we discussed other business—unimportant business—before dropping this on my fucking head.
How long had he known? He’d just been waiting, making every second more dangerous? I thought of Angela, back in the safe house, guarded, yes, but not by me. Fuck.
Tonio’s head snapped up. “He paid for the right?”
Sal nodded. “Full transfer. Three million even, laundered through a Toronto shell. A French crew’s already here—landed last night at O’Hare. Professionals.”
Dante looked at the sheet, then at Sal. “Names?”
“They’re listed as Legault and Denis. Not their real names. We ran them against Marseille records. They specialize in taking people alive. No civilian casualties. Minimum noise.”
Marco sipped his coffee. “That’s new. Valenti usually hires locals.”
“Enzo doesn’t want this traced back,” Sal said. “The money went through two cuts. We only found it because Marco flagged a customs anomaly.”
Tonio, more to himself than anyone, said: “So they’ll watch for two days, get her pattern, and try to take her somewhere quiet.”
Sal said, “That’s what we think. They checked into a motel near the airport. Rented a white Dodge Caravan, not registered to any name we recognize.”
Dante finally sat. His face gave nothing, but his hands were tight on the edge of the table, the knuckles bone-white.
