White Knight (Dirty Mafia Duet, #2)(54)

While she’s taking care of herself, I head out into the small living room to retrieve our clothes. I’ve got them in my hands when I see an open book with a picture of Giancarlo Rossetti taped to a page. It’s on the chair in the corner, resting on top of the laptop that must have come from Dom’s office.

“What the hell is this?” I ask the empty room, picking up what I now realize is a leather journal.

The bed creaks, and Memphis pokes her head out into the living room. “What?”

She comes toward me to take the clothes I hold out to her, and I flash the cover at her.

“Well . . . when I started asking questions about the feud, Benny gave it to me. He said all the names were changed, and from what I’ve read so far, it’s like a mob history lesson and then an insider’s account of the feud between the Cassos and the Rossettis.”

“Benny fucking wrote this? Jesus Christ. Dom would kill him if he knew.” If he weren’t already dying, I add silently.

I drop the journal onto the chair and pull on my pants, but I freeze with my fingers on the button of my slacks when the book flops open to a black-and-white photo of a woman.

And not just any woman.

My heartbeat kicks up and blood roars in my ears as I stare down at Memphis. I jerk my head up to her face.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, stilling with both arms shoved through the sleeves of her shirt.

I look down at the picture and back at her. “Why the fuck is there a picture of you in this book?”

“What are you talking about?” Memphis yanks the shirt over her head and closes the gap between us to stare down at the open journal. She stumbles back a step, knocking her shoulder into mine.

I reach out to steady her as I read the caption beneath it.



Selena Mazzini, before she was found murdered in the Mazzini home.





“Why . . . why does that look like me?” Memphis whips her head sideways to stare at me, and all the color is gone from her face. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. “Who . . . who is that?”

My teeth grit together, and I reach down to pick up the book.



Selena Mazzini’s body was found by her husband, Sonny Mazzini, on the evening of August 12th . . .





I look back at Memphis. “Benny’s got a lot of fucking explaining to do.”





38





Memphis





The photo is of a woman who looks like me, but now that I stare at it closer, I see the differences. My eyes are a little bigger and her nose is a bit wider.

But still. It’s my face.

I follow Cannon through the brownstone as he yells for Benny. Everyone sticks their heads out of their rooms, and he demands to know who saw the old man last. Tempo directs us to the library, and we find Benny reading in front of the empty fireplace.

As soon as we cross the threshold, Benny looks up from the book on his lap. “You hollering for me?”

“What the fuck do you know that you’re not telling us?” Cannon demands, holding out the journal and the picture of Selena Mazzini.

Benny glances at the picture and then at me—sans wig and contacts—and there’s not a single shred of surprise on his face. None.

“I told your woman I’d only seen eyes like hers once before.”

“On a dead woman named Regina,” I add and then jerk my chin toward Cannon. “Is that her real name? Regina Rossetti?”

Benny reaches up and scratches the rough whiskers forming a layer of scruff on his unshaven face. “Yeah. And I’m pretty fucking sure you’re the missing Rossetti daughter that Giancarlo and GTR could never find.”

My mouth drops open and a coating of ice forms over every inch of my skin.

“No. No. That’s not possible. My name is Memphis Lockwood. My father was Leander Lockwood, the reporter and news anchor. I’m not a Rossetti.”

“You sure about that, kid? Because Alessandra Rossetti disappeared the night her mother was murdered, and then when Gianni, her daddy, went after Dom for killing his wife, he never said what happened to the little girl. Her uncle and cousins never could find her.”

Cannon’s grip on my hip tightens, like he’s trying to brace me for what’s to come, but I’m sure I already know. Still, I ask the question anyway.

“What happened to Gianni Rossetti when he went after Dom for killing his wife?” I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth, and my entire body shakes as I wait for an answer.

It doesn’t come from Benny, though.

From beside me, Cannon says, “Dom killed him. He didn’t want to, but Gianni wouldn’t listen to reason. He didn’t believe that Dom hadn’t killed Regina.”

“Oh my God.” The food I ate earlier rises up with bile from my stomach, and I shake even harder.

Cannon must realize my knees are going to give way, and he maneuvers me into the chair opposite Benny’s. “Sit. Jesus Christ, you’re fucking white. Benny, get her some whiskey.”

“I’ll get us all some fucking whiskey,” he says.

I hear the chair squeak as he rises, but I don’t look his way because Cannon is kneeling in front of me.

“We don’t know anything yet. It’s just a fucking story right now, Memphis,” he says.