Caterina
My mother’s favorite silk scarf and some of my parents’ wedding photos sit in boxes in our basement. My father asked me for these things months ago, when he believed he was dying of liver failure. He wanted them placed in his coffin, so a piece of her could be buried with him.
I told him I’d find them but never did.
I didn’t want to face the reality of his impending death, believing that if I retrieved the keepsakes, it’d signal my loss of hope.
Who would have thought I’d be here anyway?
That truth hurts.
Shit.
I dig through the first box, startling when I hear a strange creaking moan.
Just the wind. Or old pipes. Maybe the HVAC system kicking on.
I really need to calm down.
Twelve boxes later, I have a stack of photos to pick from but no scarf. Nino and I should sort through all this old stuff together sometime. Might be a nice bonding moment.
Add it to the list, Cat, right after Stop the war with the Gallaghers and Get rid of the Russians.
I shove another box aside, as if blaming it for all the chaos. My mother’s missing scarf. Father’s murder. The Russians invasion inside the Ricci estate. Nino’s quest to take down Connor and all the Irish Kings.
Connor.
Danny and I saw him bolting into Café Castellane earlier this evening.
What the hell was he doing?
I could hardly go in and ask. I wasn’t supposed to be there either. But what exactly did he think he would accomplish by charging inside?
I can’t for the life of me—
A high-pitched whine rings through the basement. My skin crawls, and I whirl around, gasping.
It’s like ghosts crying out for help.
Maybe Tony’s haunting me.
I shudder at the thought.
Since my father’s murder, I haven’t slept for more than four hours at a time, and I wonder if I’m starting to hallucinate.
The whine echoes again, this time from the far end of the basement near the cells.
I leave the storage room to trace the noise.
I haven’t finished exploring even one of the empty spaces when someone curses overhead.
Shit. Nino’s home, and he’s pissed.
I find him in the kitchen nursing a deep, blood-crusted cut over one eye that’s turning purple and black. His lip is split, his shirt stained with crimson splotches. His knuckles appear swollen and raw.
My jaw drops. “Nino, what happened?”
He rips a paper towel off the roll and shoves it under the faucet. “Nothing.”
“It’s clearly not nothing. Who did this?”
I have a feeling I can answer my own question, but I’ll choke before uttering Connor’s name in front of my brother again.
Nino tosses the wet paper towel on the floor. “I got jumped by a pack of Micks, Cat. That’s what happened. In the alley behind Café Castellane.”
What the hell did Connor do? “Jesus, Nino.” I pull a first aid kit out of a cabinet and take out the antiseptic before wetting a cotton swab. I reach up for Nino’s brow. “Here, let me—”
He nabs it from my hands. “I got this.” Nino winces as he presses the swab to his open wound, a clear slit from a knife. “If you really want to help, you can pour me a drink while I call Oleg.”
“Sure.” No part of that sentence brings me comfort, but I do as he bids. No sense in poking the bear.
I assume he means vodka, a new staple on our counter like the homemade red sauce in the freezer and the twenty-five-pound wheel of asiago in the fridge.
I grab a tumbler and give him a couple of shots on the rocks. By the time it’s ready, he’s on the phone with Belinski, bitching about the alleged assault. He doesn’t mention Connor by name, but I know exactly who was involved.
They’re talking in shorthand now, and their familiarity with each other churns my stomach. I wonder how long it’ll be before my brother picks up Russian.
I hate this. I hate this so much. I want to snatch the phone and toss it in the blender. I want to grab Nino by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. This man—who’s friends with untrustworthy Russians and drunk on vodka and cruel to his only sister—isn’t my brother.
But letting him see any of that will only push him further away from me. Nino’s all the family I have left, and I can’t bear the thought of losing him too.
My heart would shatter all over again. I set the drink within arm’s reach of him on the counter and inch my way toward the door, exiting as if I were never here.
Then, because Connor’s got some explaining to do, I hop in my Cayenne.
As soon as I enter the safe house, I spot the Irishman in question at the island, papers splayed out on the counter in front of him.
“Cat. It’s so late, babe. What are you doing here?” He meets me by the kitchen with open arms.
His bruised, bloodied knuckles tell their own story. I fall into his hug, sparing a moment to breathe him in, letting his smoky scent calm my nerves before pulling back and gathering his hands in mine. “What the hell is this? I told you to stay away from my brother.”
I should probably just be grateful they’re both alive and no one’s locked up in a cage.
When Connor pauses, my breath hitches.
Please don’t lie to me again.
After a moment, he huffs. “He started it.”
I sigh, relieved that he didn’t try to invent a story. “You sound like a child.” I stride to the drawer with the first aid kit. Apparently tending the scrapes of the out-of-control men in my life is what I do now.
“Come on, Cat. Don’t be like that.” Unlike Nino, Connor sets his hands on the counter so I can apply antiseptic.
At least one of my out-of-control men still has some reason.
Carefully, I dab at the small cuts on his knuckles. “He wants you dead. He had you locked up in our basement. Why would you go near him?”
“To catch him in the act.” He raises his free hand like the answer’s obvious.
I set it back down so I can give it the same attention as the other. “Catch him doing what?” I wipe both hands free of blood. Though they’re scraped up, they’re not bad enough to need any butterfly stitches.
“Doing psychopathic Nino things. Thanks, that’s better.” He flexes his knuckle, then grasps my wrist and tugs me over to the island. “I need you to see this.”
I walk over and glance at the documents. “What is it?”
Connor points to a John Hancock scrawled across one of the pages. “This is a wet signature. Your father’s.” Smirking, he crosses his arms over his chest. “I grabbed this out of the vault when I was going for the diamond.”
“Hold on.” I study the cursive. That’s definitely my father’s signature. I snag another page, and then another. “This is his will…” With the date of the gala at the top of each page.
My stomach tenses, and ice trickles down my spine.
“And look at this.” Connor slaps a hand on the page farthest to the left. “The most important part.”
My legs wobble. Connor must suspect something’s wrong, because he slides a stool under my butt. I sit, grateful, and review the section he wanted me to see.
My eyes glide over the page once, twice, then a third time before reality seeps in. “He left the family…to me…” My head spins…or maybe it’s the world around me. I clutch the edge of the counter. “Why didn’t you show me this before?”
Connor begins gathering and reorganizing all the papers. “I hadn’t read it yet.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, struggling to breathe. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I swear.” He touches my arm. “Listen to me. It was in the vault with the diamond, and I took it. Then your brother or an enforcer beat me over the head and locked me up. And when you set me free, someone had already murdered your dad. My priorities shifted, and I shoved this in the drawer with the tongs and the soup ladles—”
I push off the stool and stumble away on weak knees. “I don’t believe you.”
How can I?
Does it matter? Whether he told me then or now doesn’t change the contents of the will.
My father…
Connor reaches out to cup my chin, tilting my eyes up to meet his. “I was going to wait to open this with you, but I had it out with your brother, and he—”
“I don’t believe you, Connor.” I pull away and hug myself.
I’ve never felt so small, so alone. First Nino all but kicks me out of the kitchen, and now Connor’s hiding things from me.
Even if he’s not lying…what do I do with this information?
Connor clicks his tongue. “Believe me or don’t. The point is, you’re in charge. You’re the boss.”
An electric charge zips up my spine. Heat floods my cheeks, my neck.
The fuzz in my brain fades, just a little.
I’m the boss?
Connor drifts toward me, placing both his hands on my arms. “I think Nino found out about this. And I think he killed Eduardo because of it.”
I jerk back again, a boulder forming in my stomach. “What the fuck?”
He raises his hands. “Cat, listen. I really think—”
“No!” I spin and rush to the sink, hunching over it as I retch.
Nothing comes up, but I’ve never felt so sick in my life.
Nino? My Nino? The little boy I taught to swim?
I run the water and sip down the cool liquid, which helps, if only a little.
Connor hovers at my side, rubbing small circles on my back. The warmth from his palm does nothing to melt the ice ball in my gut. “Have you talked to your father’s lawyer? To the executor? Maybe if you meet with them and—”
I skitter away. “Shut up so I can think!” When I whirl back around, Connor’s retreated to the island, his face blank.
I bury my hands in my hair.
Is my brother capable of such a vile deed?
Could he be the murderer we’re hunting for? Is that why no one’s actively seeking the real killer?
Why my brother hasn’t uttered a word about Tony’s disappearance?
No…no. I can’t believe such an awful thing.
Connor’s the real problem here.
He’s persuasive. Manipulative. He’s already lied to me so many times.
I don’t want to believe he’d attempt to brainwash me into believing my brother killed our father, but he’s the most cunning person I’ve ever met. I think he could talk anybody into anything.
So, if I shove all thoughts about Nino aside for a minute, the overarching question becomes…what motive would Connor have to convince me of this horrible truth? What does he have to gain?
Me.
If I flip on Nino and place all my faith in Connor, he has me. All of me.