Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Now, now, brothers, what’s with the hostility?”
He’s been drinking again.
“I found him at Swan.” Marcello looks pointedly from him to me. “I thought I’d drop him here with you. I have some business I need to tend to.”
Why was Antonio at Swan? Marcello leaves the way he came, and the door softly clicks shut.
“You should have listened to me about the Blaydon scum,” Antonio says when it’s just the two of us, pacing the perimeter of my office.
“If you hadn’t gone around starting fires like a child, I wouldn’t need to do anything. Now I have our names slashed across every newspaper and outlet there is. It’s bad for business,” I state, feeling the muscles in my neck straining against my skin.
He infuriates me.
“You’ve gotten too used to your suits and fancy buildings, brother. It’s still kill or be killed out there in the jungle. No matter how much money you make, how many checks you write for ballet schools, you’ll always be a Leto. Our name will always be drenched in blood and targeted for power.”
“Why were you at Swan?” I change the subject, knowing he’s just trying to get a rise out of me.
I haven’t forgotten who I am, where I came from, or where I’m going.
He struts to the chair opposite my desk, throwing his weight into it and cocking an ankle on his knee.
“There was an invitation at the house, some ball.” He shrugs, rubbing a piece of lint from his trousers.
“It reminded me of Mother. Thought I’d go and see what you’ve been spending our money on.”
“Her money,” I correct him.
“She’s dead, Luca.”
I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, leaning toward him, my hands on the desk. “Watch your tone when you speak of her.” Anger radiates from me.
“You miss her?” he questions. It’s a stupid fucking question. She was our mother.
“Do you not?” I ask, retaking my seat.
He reaches for the bottle of whiskey I have on the desk, but I grab the neck before he can and move it out of his reach.
“We both knew two very different mothers, Luca.” He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face.
“What do you mean by that?”
He looks me over for a few silent beats before saying, “She had secrets.”
Shifting on the leather, I open the liquor and pour myself a glass. “What kind of secrets?”
Everyone has secrets.
It’s normal.
Human.
“I heard her and Marcello’s mother talking a few months before she was killed.”
“Aunt Mary? About what?”
He holds his hand out for the bottle, and this time, I shove it into his palm. “About Uncle Beni.”
Marcello’s father?
He swigs from the bottle, wincing at the burn, then asks, “Do you know how he died?”
I was a teenager when he died. I was told it happened in his sleep. “Sleep apnoea.”
“Nope.” He pops the P. “Aunt Mary killed him.”
“Ludicrous.” I scoff, leaning back in my seat. Aunt Mary is a sweetheart. She couldn’t kill anyone.
“It’s true, brother. She found out he was having an affair.”
All men like him—like our father—had affairs. The wives knew and didn’t care so long as they wore the wedding ring.
“With our mother,” he finishes, wiping all humor from my face.
He’s mistaken. My jaw clenches. His words are dangerous.
“Aunt Mary knew if our father found out, he would punish not just him, but mother—and maybe Marcello too. You know how he is. Sins of the father…”
My heart is pounding, my thoughts trying to make sense of what he’s telling me. “She thought it best he went away.”
The world feels out of focus. My mother and aunt were close—best friends. There was no animosity between them.
If it was true, surely, they wouldn’t just remove the problem and carry on as normal?
“Why were they talking about it after so long?”
“Because of Annemarie.”
He guzzles the remainder of the whiskey and gets to his feet, slamming the empty bottle on my desk.
“They were talking about how much was taken from Marcello.” He grits his teeth.
“He may have loved Annemarie, but she loved me.” He jabs a finger into his own chest.
“Me.”
“Antonio,” I call out before he can leave. His hand lingers on the door handle, his head bowed to his shoes. “I went to Annemarie before the wedding, offering her an out.”
His eyes spark, widening. “And?”
“She didn’t want it.” He squeezes his eyes closed and drops his head.
“Is there anything you need to tell me?” I ask him, needing to know if he had anything to do with Serena.
Twisting his head a fraction, he says, “I just did.”
Alyssa’s phone rings once again, offering a distraction from Antonio’s departure and the bomb he just dropped on me.
Clint.
I swipe the answer icon and bring the receiver to my ear.
“Ally? Don’t hang up please.”
“This isn’t Alyssa,” I growl. He sounds young and desperate.
“Who the hell is this? Where’s Alyssa?”
“Who the fuck are you calling her phone non-stop? Take a hint.” I end the call, switching the phone off and tossing it in the top drawer of my desk.