Riding The Edge - Elise Faber Page 0,16

directly linked to the Toscalo family,” I murmured.

“Who?” Dan asked.

Even with the determination to share, my pulse picked up, my throat went tight. I’d hidden this truth because I didn’t want anyone to think I was like them, to look at me differently because of my past.

But fuck if I was a coward.

I hadn’t survived and gone on to fight for those who couldn’t by pussying out when things got tough. Lifting my chin, sucking in a breath, I met Dan’s gaze.

“Me.”

Silence.

For a long time.

Then Olive spoke. “What do you mean you?”

“I mean,” I said, having to force the words out because it had been so fucking long, and it was so fucking painful to think it, let alone to give voice to it. “I mean, I am Evelina Toscalo, daughter of Frankie Toscalo, and the woman who was supposed to have been the heir to the Toscalo family.” I glanced at Ryker. “That’s how I knew the code. Before I left, my cousin showed it to me. He’d put it together to hide income—though it took me a bit to remember how to make the puzzle pieces come together.”

This time, there wasn’t silence in response to my revelation.

This time, there was a flurry of noise.

From Ryker and Olive and Dan, all talking over each other, all throwing questions my way.

“Yo!” Laila called sharply.

I sucked in a breath, thankful for the interruption to the peppering of statements.

“Ava will explain,” she said. “But you got to let the woman talk.”

Ryker lifted a brow at his wife. “You knew.”

Laila slanted a glance his way. “I know lots of things. I also know that when you ran your own team, you didn’t always share every bit of information with your significant other.”

Meaning her.

The slightly chastising tone shut Ryker up—because it was true—and relaxed me enough that I could begin to answer some of the questions slung my way.

“Yes, my real name is Evelina Toscalo,” I said to Ryker. “But I haven’t been her for a long time. No,” I directed at Olive, “Evelina isn’t dead. Clearly. It was just safer for me to make everyone think that. And yes, I spent eighteen years in the mob,” I told Dan. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t good at faking I was on their side back then. Eventually, they came to recognize I wasn’t ever going to be their good little heiress, and so they . . .” No. My eyes slid to the side, and I forced the memories of darkness and pain away. Only then did I meet Laila’s gaze. “The reason I knew about this code at all, is because of Sergio. He’s the real heir now, even though that information isn’t commonly known. He bragged to me a few times about a shell game he’d created”—one that had effectively made him, and not my younger brother, my father’s successor—“and when I saw the files, I remembered some of the code.” I glanced down at my hands. “My computer and the algorithm I wrote did the rest.”

After a moment of silence, I looked up, saw the wide eyes greeting me.

“All this being said, I can’t be certain they’re even still using the same code more than a decade later. Nor even that Sergio is still the heir,” I admitted, sinking into my chair and leaning back into the plush leather. “The truth is, none of this may be right, and it could all be about fucking lettuce.”

Olive snorted.

“I know,” I said. “I know it’s not about lettuce. I just . . . I don’t want you all to think I magically cracked this when it may not be right any longer.”

“Right,” Laila said. “Well, there’s only one way for us to know for sure.”

My brows drew together. “How?”

“We’re taking a trip to Italy and getting some lettuce.”

Nine

Southern Italy

15:09hrs local time

Dan

White sand.

Crystal clear water.

Human trafficking.

One of those things didn’t belong with the others.

Or the multitude of tourists crowding the beaches wouldn’t think so, anyway. They were captivated by the natural beauty, the warm weather, the soothing waves. They also had absolutely no understanding of the dark underworld that shadowed the island.

Namely, that the tourism industry in this part of the country was ruled by the Toscalo family.

Visitors didn’t understand the friendly male who delivered their drink beachside was a migrant, paid pennies on the dollar, and drawn into service because he was unable to get papers to work legally. They didn’t know that the poverty seen just inland was because organized crime made it difficult to