But hey, it’s an income and he should be grateful, right?
I walk around the desk and collapse into the worn leather chair, kicking my legs out in front of me. I loved this chair from the second it was delivered. When I was younger, I used to work with my ‘patients’ in here, and even though the chair was for my father, he knew how much I adored it so he set it up with a small table for me in a corner so I could perform my surgeries in buttery soft comfort.
I cover my face with my hands. “I’m so sorry, Daddy. I shouldn’t have stayed away. I should have fixed this sooner…while we still had time…”
Tears sting my eyes, but before they have a chance to escape, I grab a legal pad and pen. “I am not going to crumble,” I mutter. “I need answers, and obviously can’t depend on any one person to give them to me so it’s time to figure them out for myself.”
Remember your training, Kristina…
With a clearer head, I sit back, squeezing my eyes shut for a few seconds.
As a doctor, I need to make a list of symptoms before determining a diagnosis for a patient. I can’t be all over the map. I need to find connections between them before I can determine what’s ailing them.
If I apply that same logic to this exercise, I’ll get the answers I need.
I have to “diagnose” my parents’ murder and listing out all the dots is the first step toward the truth because I just don’t buy that Aziz Shishani is the only person I’m trying to evade here.
My life has turned into a game of Clue.
And I need to figure out what the hell is in the envelope.
I jot down what the lawyer told me about the Chechen mafia in Brooklyn because that is supposedly the one thing only Borelli and I know about. Well, us and the Chechens, obviously.
Then I turn my attention to Uncle Frank. He mentioned Fire and Ice and something about an expansion plan. It’s not like I can validate what he said with my father, so I have to believe they were talking business that day. Maybe Dad was going to give him more control or more money to finance it.
That would make sense. Maybe it was something Savio isn’t supposed to know about, something he can squash if he found out. That would explain the static between the two of them.
I tap the pen against the polished wood, my mind tripping back to the night at the hospital when Uncle Frank was cowered in a corner on the phone just before I went outside, only to be attacked by someone who said one of the bullets was meant for me.
And then there is his ill-will toward Massimo. I can understand that to an extent. He’s made to feel like he can’t handle the whole protection gig, just another way he’s made to feel less than by Savio. There’s a lot of bad blood between them, that’s for sure.
Does this have to do with Fire and Ice? Is he worried that he’s going to lose control of it so he wants to find anything he can use to keep ownership in the wake of my dad’s death?
I scrub my hands down the front of my face.
This whole sordid situation cannot be about a nightclub.
Or could it?
Is more happening there than I know about?
My stomach knots tighter and tighter.
The Fire and Ice file is gone, according to my uncle.
Massimo flipped on me this morning after getting so cozy during our sparring match.
I straighten up like a rod has been shoved up my ass and swallow a gasp.
Holy shit.
Did Massimo come in here last night to search for information for Savio? Did he play on my trust, get me to let down my guard, and then dupe me after I made such a big deal about hiring him to protect me and my sisters?
Could that be the reason why he shut down this morning on the way back from the school?
I mean, yes, he went after Wade, but maybe that was just a way for him to connect the rest of the dots.
And once he did, he had no need to keep that bullshit façade in place for a single second longer if he really did figure out the truth about the hit on my parents.
The only problem is, what the hell is the actual truth?
Who are we running from?
Or…is there evidence in that missing file that points to Savio himself?
Could Savio be trying to erase his involvement in the murders, using Massimo as the pawn?
All of these frenzied thoughts zigzag through my mind at warp speed, too fast for me to even try to make sense of them. But I don’t dare share any of them with my uncle. He has been too vocal about his distrust, and too much of a squeaky wheel, if I’m being honest.
If I’m going to get answers, I can’t count on anyone but myself to deliver.
Uncle Frank has zero ability to do anything quietly and has every intention of proving that he is right about Savio, Massimo, and their intentions.
I, on the other hand, have nothing but a few jagged, self-constructed theories and a warning from James Borelli, Esquire, about a crime ring in Brooklyn who is out for the blood of my family.
So it all begs the question —- who the heck am I pointing a finger at?
And why am I in the center of this shit storm that just refuses to let up?
Even downpours eventually subside.
But evidently, not this time.
As of right now, my diagnosis is grossly inconclusive.
I have no choice.
I need answers and there is one way for me to get them. I have to heist Massimo’s phone.
But I can’t just steal it.
I’ll have to unlock it by swallowing my pride and doing whatever is necessary to get it unlocked.
He is on it constantly, tapping away at the screen, talking in hushed tones to who the heck ever.
If he’s up to something, there will be some telltale sign in his beloved device.
I will do whatever it takes in the name of my family.
I need to determine a diagnosis in enough time that I can cure it.
The nagging question of what I will do with the proof once I have it remains unanswered, though. I grunt inwardly and shove it to the back burner until I need to revisit it.
There’s just one problem.
I need to figure out how to use my feminine wiles to get close enough to grab the phone since I pretty much blasted him a little while ago for playing games with me. I’m not the sultry, seductive type like Sofia. Jeez, even at eighteen, she can waggle an eyebrow and get the male population drooling.
My tactics will be less glossy, but they need to be equally as effective because there are a lot of random dots plastered across my mind, and none of them tell me a story.
The first step is to get Massimo all to myself.
And I try my hardest to extinguish the faint squeal of glee that creeps into my conscious at the thought of being close to him once again.
Head case.
Maybe I should think about switching my focus to psychiatry.
I have to lure him out of hiding, wherever that may be.
And I need to dangle a carrot in front of him.
I grit my teeth, a hot flush creeping into my cheeks.
Spandex works.
I can’t rock the lithe model look but I do have these boobs. And last night Massimo seemed pretty captivated by them.
It’s time to use them the way Maria and Sofia are always telling me to, although I doubt stuffing them into a sports bra to give myself pornographic cleavage is what they had in mind.
I haven’t done my workout today. A little Spotify blaring through the speakers will perk up his ears, leading him to me, and then I can go to work on his eyes. Darting over to the staircase, I get ready to jog upstairs, taking a second to straighten the painting hanging on the wall.