Page 68 of Vicious Secrets
My family—the real one—needs me. They still accept me as their Boss. I will not allow anyone to attempt to take the title from me.
Stepping in, I cross the room to Reg’s desk with steps that sound like I’m wearing boots a size too big. Reg’s eyes go wide, pushing his heavy lids and brow bone flat. He sets his coffee cup against a saucer with a clatter—not a shake. He’s angry, not fearful. I’m vaguely aware of Vittore closing the door behind us softly.
“Why are you in my home unannounced?”
My hands slam on his desk, the sound dulled by the stupid leather mat over the wood, and the ache in the heel of my hand from the gun doesn’t register as actual pain. I lean forward and snarl. Reg doesn’t shrink. He doesn’t eye the barrel pointed at him. I don’t expect him to; he’s hardened. He’s one of the few men in our lives who made it past fifty. Making it within a year of sixty is a miracle.
“The Bratva killed Renzo to keep Mother’s secret safe.”
There is no point in trying to give him an out. He will die today, and I want this conversation to be as quick as the bullet that tears through his skull. I have a life to get back to. A life that is practically unchanged by this horrible secret because there are people who love me unconditionally. Lady luck has been on my side for longer than I’ve recognized.
Reg lifts his chin sharply, and there’s a glint of challenge in his eyes. “Which secret?”
“Cut the shit. Who’s my biological father?”
Reg leans forward with a jolt, and the desk rattles under my palms as he pulls open a compartment on the underside somewhere above his knees. I lunge backward and point my gun at his head. There is a harsh metallic click of a hammer. It isn’t a warning; it’s an ending.
Reg’s body jumps like someone literally kicked his ass as the tell-tale twang of a revolver discharging rings through the room. Blood splatters on the wall behind him in a halo of red thanks to the high back of the chair catching the bulk of it. Blood drips from the open maw of his mouth, pouring through the hole under his chin like a fountain.
“Fuck.”
Vi comes into view, charging around the desk with his coat billowing out behind him. He runs his finger over the bullet hole in the wood.
“No safe there, Boss.” He spins and kneels, looking under the desk. “Fuck. Found some shit. There are papers where the gun was stashed. Looks like old phones and other shit too.”
“We’ll pry the desk apart later,” I say through tight lips.
Reg didn’t give me a lot in life, but the truth is one thing I thought I could always count on from him.
Papers rustle, and the wood creaks. “There’s a lot of shit about New York in here.”
“It adds to our cover. I’ve suspected for a while he was giving the Bratva a leg up.” My voice is dull, almost monotone.
The door creaks open, and I don’t bother turning around to see if it’s my mother with a machine gun. I’m too apathetic to give a fuck despite everything I have to live for.
The blond mop of Ari’s head creeps into the corner of my eye. “Did it himself?”
I nod slowly. But why? To avoid answering my questions? Or because he knew his time was up?
“Vi, let’s go visit my mother. We’ll leave the desk to Alic, Ari, and Danny.”
Without a word, the two men follow me through the house to my mother’s sitting room. This place isn’t fit to be anyone’s home. Painting the walls a cheery color wouldn’t reduce their cold whispers of emotional neglect. Of days spent laying in bed in a room bursting at the seams with toys that I didn’t play with because no one taught me how to play.
This house should be burnt to the ground and built anew.
“Reg shot himself. Tear his desk apart. It’s full of shit supporting our cover story. Burn anything you find about my actual father,” I say to no one in particular before shouldering open the door to the sitting room.
Mother sits by an open window, her hand holding a lit cigarette to the open panel. Her gaze moves between Vi and me, but there’s no other outward reaction to us. When we were children, she’d go about her routine, and if we didn’t fit into it, she wouldn’t acknowledge us. Nothing’s changed.
“I know Reg isn’t my father.”
She takes a drag from her cigarette. “And?”
Vi scoffs behind me.
“Who is he?”
Exhaling through her nose, she ashes the cigarette over the carpet. There isn’t an ashtray in sight. I don’t know if she’s taunting the cleaning staff or trying to “accidentally” burn the house down.
