Page 182 of Snaring Emberly
“Martina?” he asks.
I hesitate. “She was an attorney. I lost her card, and I was wondering if you could pass on her number.”
“Leave it with me.” Mr. Lubelli pauses for a few seconds, then my phone buzzes. “Did you get it?”
I glance at my screen. Martina’s name and number appear on the display. “Got it. Thank you.”
“Good luck,” he says before hanging up.
What?
I shake off my confusion, telling myself not to look too deeply into Mr. Lubelli’s parting words, and dial her number.
She answers in one ring. “Di Marco Law Group, Martina Mancini speaking?”
“Hi, you probably don’t remember me.” My words come out in a rush. “My name is Emberly Kay. We met at Roman Montesano’s?—”
“Miss Kay,” she says, her voice so sharp that I flinch. “Where are you?”
I glance around the studio, wondering why she sounds so panicked. “Somewhere safe. Why?”
“Are you alright? We’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”
My heart skips several beats, and my paranoia rears back to the surface. If she’s one of the lawyers Mr. Callahan said were trying to find me, then why didn’t she say something at the party?
Maybe she planned on cornering me when Mr. Lubelli was out of earshot, but the event exploded into pandemonium.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I reply, my voice guarded. “What did you want with me?”
She exhales a long breath. “It’s related to the recent death of your father.”
“Who?”
“Frederic Capello,” she replies.
The word hits like a punch to the heart, and I drop the phone.
This is bullshit.
There’s no way in hell my father is the man who framed Roman for murder. I stare at my latest canvas, my heart pounding hard enough to splatter blood all over my unfinished painting. It contains wildflowers I found on a patch of land beyond the electrified fence.
My mind dredges up Mr. Callahan’s parting words:
Why the fuck are you shacking up with the man your father framed for murder?
No.
I can’t be related to a mafia boss. Mom would have said something…
“She did,” I whisper. “Every fucking day.”
I bow my head, recalling how Mom used to scream at me whenever I got into a fight at school that I was just like my father, who thought rules never applied to him. If I ate too much at dinner, I would be a crook, just like him.
My phone rings, snapping me out of my thoughts. I glance at the display, which says Martina Mancini, Di Marco Law Group. I ignore the call, letting it go to voicemail.
A few days before I met Roman, all the newspapers reported the death of the family who owned the Capello Casino. In a single night, a lone gunman murdered Frederic Capello, his wife, his twin sons, and a whole host of relatives who had stayed over to celebrate his sixtieth birthday.
With trembling fingers, I search the internet for photos.