Page 63 of Vicious Secrets
How the fuck did he manage to get himself home? And how many hours did he spend with those wounds open?
I toss and turn all night. Siro, for the most part, sleeps soundly and doesn’t notice me adjusting the blood bag or checking on the hastily-done sutures.
I pull myself out of bed sometime after eight. I take a quick shower, redress, and check on Siro. Placing a kiss on his forehead earns me a small reaction.
“I’m sure there are unwelcome guests in the living room. Stay in bed, and rest. I’ll chase them off.”
Siro grunts his response. I kiss his forehead again and leave.
As soon as I step into the living room, the dry scent of burnt paper, gunpowder, and wires stings my nose. I cough and press the back of my hand to my mouth. I scan the skyline for a burning building, but all is quiet on the Strip. There isn’t a plume of smoke or even steam on the horizon.
The weight of the stares in the room grinds on me. I finally acknowledge Fabi and Vittore’s existence.
“Why are you two here?” I ask.
Tiff steps out of the kitchen and smooths her hands over her front. No one else seems to be affected by the smell, and they’re all fucking staring at me. I double-check myself. I’m wearing a basic T-shirt dress and leggings, and my hair is pulled back in a messy bun. I drop my hand to my side and sigh.
“Good morning. Siro’s not dead if that’s why you’re all frozen in place.”
“Robyn, there are some developments we need to talk about,” Tiff says in a soft voice and gestures toward the slider doors of the balcony. “Why don’t we—”
“Sure, after someone explains to me why the fuck my husband drove himself home a pint low.”
“Just to make it clear, we’re firmly on your side Robyn. Someone should have noticed.” Vittore shifts in his seat, bouncing one knee like he’s held back nervous energy for so long he might explode if he doesn’t release it soon. “Last night, it wasn’t easy to tell what blood was his, and I think he changed his coat out so no one would notice. But, uh, he’s got a nasty habit of forgetting his status. Recently it’s gotten worse.”
I swallow around a lump in my throat and stare down at my feet. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. Residual panic from last night pushes through the exhaustion numbing me. I rub my upper arms. “Recently? As in, since the wedding?”
Fabi speaks up. “Since the engagement.”
“And not because of you,” Vittore quickly tacks on.
I release a sigh of relief and look up.
“The Boss cares for you like he cares about his title. And it’s fuckin’ weird,” Fabi says with a smile.
I ignore him. “So, why do you need me, Tiff?”
The room runs cold, and suddenly no one will look me in the eye.
“To explain why the Bratva killed my husband,” she says in a voice way too calm for a new widow. “Let’s talk outside.”
Tiff guides me out onto the balcony and to the lounge chairs. We sit sideways on the chairs to face each other, and the source of the gut-punching smell from earlier becomes clear. A singed metal crate—possibly a large safety deposit box—sits against the wall of the penthouse between the two chairs. The top is open, and inside is what looks like an unorganized, spread-out stack of documents. There are maybe twenty or thirty sheets of paper in a box that could contain hundreds.
“While you were patching Siro up, I sent Ari to my house to search for a safe. He was gone for hours, and from the look of that”—Tiff gestures to the box—“there probably isn’t a single floorboard still attached to the floor.”
The tension in my shoulders floods away as I chuckle. I look up at her, and she smiles softly, and the corners of her lips quiver. Her fingers twine together, and she shoves her hands between her knees. The angry tears stop as my stomach takes a roller coaster-like dive off the balcony.
“What is it?” My voice comes out as a squeak. All I have to do is lean to the right and grab the papers, but I can’t take my eyes off Tiff’s face.
Her dark, piercing eyes are identical to Siro’s. Seeing them glossy and shimmering with fear brings back crystal-clear memories of last night. There was a moment when Siro’s unfocused, haunting stare refused to leave my face like he thought it was his last chance to memorize me.
Tiff turns her head toward the Strip. A tear rolls down her cheek, and her mouth opens and closes several times. “There were so many hints that I brushed off as-as my Carista’s parenting or my brother working long hours. I did step in a few times—I convinced Reg to take in Vittore, so Siro would have a friend, a true ally at his side. But all the little things make sense now, and I wish they didn’t.”
A sob cuts off her voice, and her shoulders arch forward as her head hangs. I don’t understand what Tiff’s trying to tell me, and I’m not sure I’ll get a verbal answer as quickly as my pounding heart wants it. Sucking in a deep breath, I blindly reach for the contents of the box and plop the papers on my lap.
The first item on top is a cover sheet with Renzo’s information and “Ha ha!” scribbled in Sharpie. I press my lips in a thin line as my eyes roll over the list of names on the next several sheets of paper. Many of them are crossed out with varying colors and types of ink like he’s been maintaining whatever this list is for years. As I flip through the lists, a pattern in names becomes clear.
They’re all men born fifty or more years ago. And they’re Russian.
