“You’re not watching those fucking videos!” he shouts. Lorenzo pushes both his hands through his hair and growls. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. But I mean it, princess. I’ll die before I ever let you watch those videos.”
I didn’t mean watch the murders, but he made it sound like the recordings began with just their sisters alone in a room and I want desperately to see that room. But I don’t speak. There’s barely controlled rage simmering beneath the surface that Lorenzo fights to get under control.
He walks over to me and grips the metal table either side of my hips. His hair is wild and his cold blue eyes are troubled. “All right. I believe you when you say it’s important. If there’s something you really want to know, ask me, and I’ll try to answer you. But I’m not showing you anything.”
I nod, resolving to do this as quickly as possible, though not painlessly. I can already tell it’s causing him horrible pain. “What did that basement look like?”
“It was just a basement. There wasn’t anything special about it. Dark. Damp. The walls were crumbling in places. There was a vent high on the wall that let in a little light. It could be any basement in Coldlake or beyond.”
Disappointment washes over me. I feared that’s what he’d say. “Did you ever draw any conclusion about the killer from…” The way he killed your sisters. “How he did it?”
Lorenzo’s eyes bore into mine. “That he’s a sadistic fucking asshole and a coward who hates women as much as he hates the Coldlake Syndicate.”
Hates women. I agree with him there. There’s so much hate in what this person did to the four sisters. They were murders so elaborate that they were elevated to an art form. A sick, twisted art form. I’d lay money on the killer being proud of their handiwork.
“I feel like there was a sense of irony about the way the killer murdered each of your sisters. That he was trying to send a message to each of you.”
His brows draw together. “What do you mean?”
“Ophelia, for instance. The Fiores have always been immaculate and untouchable, so the killer mutilated and defiled Salvatore’s beautiful sister, giving her the most grotesque death possible.”
I remember what Lorenzo said that he told Sienna when she was tied up on his bedroom floor. She hemorrhaged from her face. You wouldn’t think it would be possible, would you? Those cuts in her cheeks severed the external maxillary arteries. My guess is he slashed her face first and then got on with torturing her and she screamed herself to death.
“Cassius is from a proud, old Italian family,” I continue, “so the killer wanted to mock him and his sister’s history. Cassius said it himself. Impaling her on a spike was medieval.”
The spike missed all the vital organs, traveled up through the body and out her shoulder. She could have been like that for hours, maybe days, before the bastardo finally killed her.
“Amalia was addicted to drugs and working in a brothel, so the killer cut her into pieces and threw her away. And Sienna…”
Pain flashes over Lorenzo’s face. When she was found, Sienna looked perfect, like a waxwork doll, but on the inside, she was filled with feces and dead insects.
“I think the killer was trying to say that she was pretty on the outside, but on the inside she was…”
“Trash,” Lorenzo mutters, his tone bitter. “She was trash, her whole family is trash. I’m trash, and I have no business controlling any part of this city.”
He pushes away from me and scrubs two hands over his face. I watch him in sad silence, hoping I’m not putting him through this pain for nothing.
“I never thought about their deaths that way before, princess. I think you’re right. It’s not just twisted. That monster was laughing at us.”
“And he knew what he was doing. I think the killer must have some sort of medical training. He’s intelligent and he thinks he’s artistic, too. Exceptional. Someone important in Coldlake, or someone that has friends in high places.”
“Yeah. Like your father. So who does your father know who fits that description? Medical background. Artistic. A flair for the sadistic.”
I take a deep breath and scour my mind for possibilities. Maybe a doctor who loves to read the classics or an art gallery director who enjoys sculpture and tried his hand at sculpting with dead flesh. I wish I’d paid more attention to Dad’s friends. Mom would know. I wish I could ask her. “Dad’s connected with just about everyone important in Coldlake. Mom’s funeral was a who’s who of prominent people.”
“I wish I’d been there,” Lorenzo growls, his eyes narrowing. Then he glances at me. “I’m sorry. You know what I mean.”
I do know what he means. It would have been an opportunity to take a good look at anyone who fits this description. “It’s a creepy thought, that the killer might have been in the house that day, eating finger sandwiches and hiding in plain sight.”
Lorenzo helps me down from the table. “I wish I could make you stop thinking about this stuff. You’re having a baby. You’re supposed to be radiant with sunshine and rainbows and shit.”
Instead, I’m thinking about death and murky basements. I reach up and touch his cheek. “Thank you for talking to me about this. I needed to tell someone my theory and now I can move forward with the next part of my plan, if you’ll let me use one of your computers. I want to go through newspaper articles about Dad since he became mayor and compile a list of everyone he’s been connected with who is either artistic or medical.”
He kisses my forehead. “No problem, princess. As long as you’re where I can see you, I’ll bear with it. But if I see your blood pressure going up, I’m changing my passwords and you can sit and knit.”
I smile up at him. “Thank you for taking good care of me and the little bean.”
He can’t resist it when I’m grateful for his overprotectiveness, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Damn you, woman. You’ve got us all wrapped around your little finger.”
I blink my lashes at him, “Who, me?”
Lorenzo’s phone rings and he answers it. “What?” He frowns and puts the caller on speakerphone. “Talk. She can hear you.”
I stare at Lorenzo’s phone, wondering who it is, and a female voice speaks. “Chiara? It’s Alecta. How are you doing?”
I haven’t seen Alecta since she fake-crumpled to the ground at the cage fighting match. She was a better actor than I was. “Alecta! I’m great, thank you. It’s lovely to hear from you.”
Her tone is serious. “I already reported this to Zagreus, but he thought you might like to hear this from me personally. I’ve been keeping an eye on the De Luca home under Mr. Scava’s orders, waiting to see if De Luca appeared or if anything suspicious went down.”
I exchange looks with Lorenzo. “And has he? Are Nicole and her mom all right?”
“They’re absolutely fine,” she assures me and then hesitates. “De Luca is back.”
So he is alive. “When did he arrive?”
“Ten minutes ago. He pulled into the driveway, walked up to the front door and let himself in like it was a normal goddamn day and he hasn’t been missing for eight months.”