Page 59 of Ruthless

Dante frowns, confused. “They brought all the stolen artwork back?”

I’m practically bouncing on the cot. I’ve always loved that story. “Yup. The curator got off, and the police were never able to find the other culprits. Afterward, the woman disappeared, and the gallery was shut down.”

Dante strokes his jaw. “It’s not much, but it couldn’t hurt to research the details. Do you remember the curator’s name?”

I blow out a breath and tug on my braid. The pressure against my scalp helps center me, ebbing my anxiety. “It was really unique. Beautiful too…” I stare off into nothingness until the name hits me like a bolt of lightning. “Dulce.”

Dante falls into a trancelike stillness. “Dulce Conti.” Shaking his head, he grips my upper arms and yanks me to my feet. When I yelp, his hold softens but remains firm. “Are yousure?”

Panicked that somehow, I’ve said something wrong, I nod fervently. “I-I’m not lying. Iswear. Dulce Conti. And the gallery was…it was s-somewhere near?—”

At my stumbling, remorse flickers across Dante’s face. He releases me to smooth his hands down my arms. “It’s okay,bella. I believe you.”

Longing replaces my trepidation. I miss his touch, both the brutalandkind, and I reach for him as he turns away.

“Dante.” My stomach knots with dread. “Do you know her? Dulce Conti?”

His shoulders are stiff as he grips the door handle.

“Yes. She was my mother.”

Chapter 23

Dante

I recline in my desk chair, a glass of scotch dangling from my hand. Following the bombshell Sara dropped, I retreated to the relative safety of my study. While Leo does some digging based on this new information, I’m stuck in my head, wading through memories.

Dulce Argento, nee Conti, would be fifty-five if she were still alive. She was murdered three months after my tenth birthday and only days after Marco’s birthday, and I never had a chance to say goodbye. During her life, she found solace in baking, and the kitchen often served as her sanctuary. All my best memories as a child involve gathering around our old, scarred kitchen table, helping Mamma put the finishing touches on the sfogliatelle or bombolini.

Thatnight began as usual, with us watching our mother set out the ingredients for Marco’s birthday tiramisu. When she realized she didn’t have enough mascarpone, she grabbed her purse and promised us she’d be back in a few minutes.

Minutes became hours, and hours turned into a lifetime.

Mamma was the first person this world ever took from me, but certainly not the last.

I toss back a healthy swig of scotch, relishing the slight burn as the liquid travels down my esophagus. Unfortunately, no answers await me at the bottom of a liquor bottle. If that were the case, I would have solved the mystery of my mother’s death long ago.

Or if not me, then Marco. My brother never met a drink he didn’t like, at least not in recent years.

My mind spins through history in yet another futile attempt to piece together what happened. My parents met after Giovanni Argento snuck into a Conti party against his father’s direct orders. The Argentos and the Contis have been feuding for years. No one knows how the animosity started, just that it’s as virulent now as always. A conflict exacerbated by Dulce Conti eloping with Papà and never looking back.

To this day, I still don’t know why she died. Marco was seven at the time. If the Contis wanted revenge for her marriage to their enemy’s son, they would have acted sooner. After she was gone, my father had plenty of time to investigate her murder or bring the case before the Council, but for some reason, he never did.

Deep down, I never forgave him. Not for that, or for the way he allowed love to dictate every aspect of his life. When that love was stolen from him, he fell apart, both as the don of our family and as a father. It’s why I always avoid visiting her grave with him, no matter how many times he asks. How can I pay my respects with the man who permitted her death to go unavenged standing by my side?

I pick up my phone and hit his contact, only to get sent straight to voicemail. Figures. Even if he did answer, he probably wouldn’t have any information to share. My father’s always been frustratingly tight-lipped when it comes to my mother.

I leave a message requesting that he call me back and then return to my brooding.

An hour later, Luca gives me the name he extracted from Jackson, and my brain nearly explodes.

Enzo Conti. Aka, the Ghost.

One of the men who kidnapped and tortured me for months. The ringleader.

The man I’ve hunted for the last five years.

Downing the rest of my scotch, I rise from the chair and begin pacing. Possibly by design, the Conti side of my family remains a mystery to me. Before my mother’s murder, I gathered information through snippets of muffled conversations. The hushed tones, caught behind closed doors, always faded to silence the moment I entered a room. As little more than a child, I wasn’t yet privy to the true nature of the role I’d eventually need to fulfill, but even then I possessed a curious mind.