"Aria, you had me hooked the moment you stood in front of me in the VIP booth back at Volt. Then you had me whipped when you were sprawled across my desk a panting mess." His lips brush mine and I want nothing more than to lean forward and close the...
My head snaps up from the ground. I close the front door behind me and sigh deeply.
"You've been gone three days, Andre."
My brother sits on the bottom step of the stairs. My hair is a mess, my beard is starting to grow out. I smell of stale sex and alcohol, and my fingers smell like playing cards and gaming chips.
"I'm sorry." My voice is hoarse. I lean back against the door and take in my brother's appearance. Lorenzo said he would give us updates on our sisters. Daily. It's been almost three weeks and we still haven't heard anything.
Adriano looks sick. His face is pale and his cheekbones are more defined. Losing our sisters has taken a toll on both of us. He's not even wearing a suit. Even Mother. She won't speak to Father, and only just last week he admitted that he shouldn't have handed them over. He can't stand the fact that she won't talk to him.
"You're sorry?" He lifts his head from his hands.
I nod in response looking back down at the ground.
"Three days, Andre. Three fucking days!" His voice echoes through the house. He stands from his seat on the stairs, his hands clenching at his sides, and the vein in his neck bulging. No one is home. Mother is staying in the penthouse back in Milan and Father is taking care of business in Russia. "You didn't just lose them, Andre. I did too."
I don't think I've seen Adriano cry since he was 10 years old. Tears brim his eyes as he tries to blink them away, but a few slip away. He quickly wipes them away before regaining his composure.
"I found something."
I don't know what's been happening these past three days. The moment I left the house I turned my phone off.
"What did you find?" I whisper, not wanting to aggravate him more. He gets his temper from Father. But no one could ever have a temper as severe as my Father's. He picks up a huge stack of paper from the stairs and hands it to me.
"What's this?" I question taking it from him. I look at the stack, each part is stapled together by month, the most recent files are on top. They're shipping logs going back 24 years. Shipping logs signed by my Father. Alberto Marino took over this mafia when he was 28 years old, so I guess this lines up. "They're shipping logs, so what?"
"Turn the page over." Adriano sits back down on the stairs. Turning the first page over I frown, then the second page, and then the third.
Names.
Line after line. Names. Age. Gender. Ethnicity.
There are probably hundreds of names on each page. Sliding down the door I keep turning each page over.
