40. Basilio
Basilio
P riest waved his iPad, the only undamaged piece of electronics that survived after I lost my shit.
I extended my hand but he narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he growled. “This is the only surviving piece in a five mile radius.”
After I had destroyed everything I got my hands on, Priest held on to his iPad like his life depended on it.
Good thing too, because once the red haze over my brain retracted, I could think clearly again.
And I put Priest to work. He’d dig up everything on Star Flemming.
Clearly Angelo, my father’s right hand man, couldn’t be counted on if he was unable to retrieve a single piece of information on the woman that the whole world knew. Fucking traitor.
“What do you have?” I asked him, staring into the dark of the night.
Emory and Dante sat in the room with us. My sister knew the athlete side of Wynter and was able to share everything she knew about Star Flemming. But I needed to know everything.
“All we had to do was look up Star Flemming and information flowed,” Priest dropped the bomb and all our attention snapped to him. “And guess fucking what?”
“What?” I grumbled.
“Brennan has a standing agreement with Nico Morrelli, wiping out all traces of his family on a daily, possibly hourly, basis. I find something on her and then it disappears. I was able to hack into Morrelli’s web frame for all of fifteen seconds but it was enough to dig up her name.”
I clenched my fists, the need to punch something so strong, my muscles actually ached.
“He hid her and her mother from the DiLustros after whatever had happened between Aisling Brennan and your father, Basilio. And he kept them off the Russian’s radar.”
The pent up frustration stirred in my body. It recognized being close to my target and I wanted to pounce. But I had to be calculating and careful. Otherwise, I’d lose her and next time, I might not find her again.
Priest’s guy walked into the room and set a large desktop screen on the desk in Emory’s office.
“Refrain from destroying this,” Emory grumbled, glaring at me. “Do you need cables?” she asked Priest.
The latter shook his head. “I have it connected via Bluetooth.”
Two swipes, the screen came on and Wynter’s image filled my sight.
I froze.
She took my breath away. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.
She wore cropped black leggings, pink Chucks, and a loose pink off-the-shoulder shirt that came down to her mid thighs. Her duffle bag thrown over her shoulder, her gaze was distant, as she smiled at someone. Paparazzi had to snap the photo as she was leaving one of her training sessions.
Fuck, she was so painfully beautiful. Her blonde curls gave a halo expression even in the picture. I knew firsthand how soft those curls were. Her hair trailed down her shoulders. Her face was flawless. But it was her eyes that got me. The way they shimmered, big and curious, even in the photo.
Now that I knew she was alive and well, living her life happy and free, all the while I was burning down this world, looking for her, red haze marred my vision. The anger that she’d left me was so strong, I had to choke it down. It burned in my throat, leaving ash and acid in its wake.
I wanted to make her hurt, so she had a taste of the pain I went through for the past nine months.
“Who’s the guy next to her?” Dante asked. “It doesn’t look like her skating partner.”
“Sasha Nikolaev,” Priest answered. “You’ll see him a lot.”
My gaze darkened and Dante snickered. “Fuck, I can see we’ll have to kill him.”
He wiped a hand across his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his amusement and thrill at the challenge. Fucking Dante was all about challenges. Crazy fucker.
“You can try,” Priest retorted in a sarcastic tone, “-but more than likely you’ll fail. Sasha Nikolaev is rumored to be one of the best contracted killers for Cassio King, his gang, and the Nikolaev men. She has been under Sasha’s protection.”
“Getting sweet with a Russian, huh?” Dante egged on and I had to fight the urge to shoot him. “The irony of it all.”
I couldn’t think about Wynter and the blonde prick on the screen; otherwise, I’d put a bullet in everyone’s goddamn head.
“It’s platonic between Nikolaev and the skating star,” Priest added. It didn’t ease the fury. I grabbed a cigarette and tapped it on the table, though I wouldn’t light it.
“You have to admit, they make a striking couple,” Dante mused.
Leaning back, I rolled a cigarette between my fingers and shot Dante a look that conveyed he was close to being my dead cousin.
“They’re both too blonde,” Emory reasoned, trying to soothe my seething anger.
Priest flipped the screen and unfortunately, it switched to an image of Sasha and Wynter together in Portugal. A reporter must have snapped a picture of them jogging together. I fucking hated how good they looked. They’d have pretty, blonde babies.
Over. My. Dead. Body.
“Priest. Continue.” My voice whipped through the air as a red mist blurred my vision. It turned out my mother was right to fear I’d become a mold of my father and the Syndicate. It was exactly what happened.
I still remembered the disdainful look in her eyes as she walked away, with little Emory in her arms.
“You’ll turn into your father,” she whispered as she walked away without a backward glance. She hated me before I even had a chance to prove to her, I could be a better man.
For Wynter, I wanted to be a better man and she walked away without a backward glance too. After nine months of going mad, it turned out she was alive and well. Fucking skating.
Images of the woman that I’ve been hunting for the past nine months flashed through the screen. Gold medals. Competitions. Accomplishments. Travels. Friends.
“Freeze that,” Dante barked, straightening up in his spot. “Who’s that?”
An image of a woman with a face resembling Wynter’s stared at us. Eyes that looked empty. Face that was drawn but spoke of beauty that faded in sorrow and resignation.
“That’s her mother, Aisling Brennan,” Priest answered. “Also Wynter’s coach.”
Dante shook his head. “It can’t be,” he muttered. “She looks like-”
“Like Wynter,” I snapped, annoyed at his behavior. “I can see.”
Dante shook his head. “No, she looks like my father’s old mistress.”
We all straightened up. “What?”
“I’d remember her anywhere. She looks like my father’s old mistress. From way back, when we were kids. Her hair was black back then, but it could have been colored. Or a wig. She always hid her face behind sunglasses and her hair under her shawls.”
The four of us shared a look. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m goddamn sure,” he snapped. “And the day I saw her bring the baby. Priest. You don’t forget a woman that brought a baby to your door.”
Priest had blonde hair, his coloring different from the rest of us. Dante and Priest shared a father, but they had different mothers.
“Who’s Wynter’s father?” I kept my voice quiet, dread pooling in the pit of my stomach. I was too deep with this girl and incest wasn’t in my fucking cards.
“Not to worry, her father was a figure skater,” Priest assured me. “Her mother’s skating partner.”
“Are you sure?” I barked. I wouldn’t allow any fucking obstacle between us, but that one it would be impossible to overcome. Jesus Christ. My uncle better not have fucked Wynter’s mother and got her pregnant with Wynter.
“Yes,” Priest confirmed. “Aisling Brennan underwent fetal blood transfusion to treat anemia in the fetus while she was pregnant with Wynter. The blood count of her fetus was too low and the condition was life threatening. They used her father’s blood for transfusion while he was on his deathbed.
Ivan Flemming. Fetus was Rh-positive and the red blood cells were being destroyed by the Rh-sensitized mother’s immune system. ”
“Okay, I’m assuming only parent’s blood could have been used?” Emory inquired. “Because that sounded like a bunch of mumbo jumbo shit to me.”
“Wynter’s mother is Rh negative and so are our fathers,” Dante summarized it for her.
“So are we. It means the probability of DiLustro being Wynter’s father is null.
Rh factors follow a common pattern of genetic inheritance.
If both parents have a negative Rh factor, the baby will too. Well, Wynter is Rh-positive.”
“Thank fuck,” I muttered.
Another image flashed on the screen. Wynter with her three friends. The quad team. The four sat together in Wynter’s Jeep, somber and their eyes locked, probably contemplating the next heist.
Priest froze the screen and pointed to the woman. “Who is this?” He pointed to Wynter’s red-haired friend with hazel eyes.
“One of Wynter’s friends. The four of them burned down a guy’s house. According to Wynter, they all went to Yale together.” Of course, I couldn’t be sure she told me the truth.
“She was in my club the night my armored truck got robbed,” Priest declared, his eyes glued on the woman.
“If she was there, so were her friends,” I told him.
“It means Wynter and her friends had something to do with the truck robbery,” Dante growled. “Just like they pulled that stunt in my casino.”
Why wasn’t I surprised?
“The red-haired woman’s mine,” Priest growled. I cocked my eyebrow at the unexpected declaration.
“Well, if we are throwing around claims,” Dante drawled, “The blue-eyed one is mine.”
I smirked. “That one is psychotic,” I deadpanned. “She burned down a fucking house.”
Dante shrugged. Of course, it wouldn’t bother any of us what they did. As long as they were ours.
Emory scoffed. “You three are idiots.”
Ignoring my sister, I locked eyes with Priest. “I’m going to need to buy your Philly club, with the purchase date of last year.”
“Why?” Emory asked, her brows knitted.
“Because I’m going to make Wynter settle that debt,” I told her, smiling darkly. “Dante, is that illegitimate Ashford in Canada still asking for information on an Afghan supplier?”
She scoffed. “The fucker will never get it.”
I grinned. “Never say never. I know Byron Ashford is trying to mend the relationship with his illegitimate brother. So we will use the Afghan supplier connection to blackmail our dear Ashford cousins to back us up.”
“Why in the fuck do we even want them on our side?” Emory asked.
“We can’t win against the Brennans, Nikolaevs, and Cassio’s gang. But with the four Ashford brothers in our corner, the odds will be better. We have to plan for the worst case scenario.”
“Brennan’s gonna want a war,” Priest guessed.
“And he’ll get it,” I told him.
“Basilio, you’re a scary motherfucker when you scheme,” Emory remarked dryly. I’d be a scary motherfucker if I lost Wynter for good.
I turned my attention back to the golden-haired woman on the screen.
I’d marry that girl if it was the last thing I did on this fucking earth.