Page 120 of Filthy Little Games

It’s best if we have a clean break.

My heart just needs to heal like the rest of my body, even if it feels like an impossible feat.

Unfortunately, there are no pills to make that ache go away.

Creed

I’ve been at the docks for hours this morning. Long enough to watch Zara, Oriana, an entourage of men and nannies, board a fewminutes after sunrise with their documentation we found in the van in the construction site’s garage.

This morning, I left the penthouse early, unable to even attempt to say goodbye. I hope Zara is cussing me out right now for the slight. The sooner she hates me, the better off she’ll be.

As their boat slowly disappears out of sight, my lungs tighten when I try to take a deep breath. I try again with the same result. Grabbing my chest, I know I fucked up, and I’m probably having a goddamn panic attack.

I’m a fuckingcretino.

I should’ve said goodbye, kissed Zara, and held her in my arms one last time. But she was hurt and had been through hell. Now, the last time I saw her will always be with Emilio’s body cooling nearby and the horrors she endured at his fucking hand.

Instead of hating me, Zara thinks I was so disgusted by seeing Izaiah’s name on her body that I don’t want her anymore.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Behind me, one of the doors of the idling SUV opens. “Meeting time,” Dre says, interrupting my breakdown when he stands beside me.

I nod and press my palm to my chest even harder, trying to will the ache away.

We’re about to go face the music for last night, and I need to get myself together. Lives depend on me selling this load of horse shit to the rest of the families, especially the Rovinas.

“Thank you all for meeting today on short notice,” I say to the men gathered at the table in Omerta. “I want to offer my condolences to you, Saint. I’m sorry you lost your father so soon after losing a brother.”

The next words out of his mouth will seal our fate — either the family bought our lie, or I’m their top suspect.

Saint nods while gritting his teeth. “The police said there was no foul play, that they’re certain it was a suicide, since he sent himself a note. But my fatherneverwould’ve left without putting up a fight. Taking his own life is not his style, and you know it. We don’t even know if Izaiah is dead yet, so it doesn’t make any fucking sense!”

“I can’t imagine how hard it must be to not have closure for Izaiah and now all this…”

“Do I really have to say it?” Saint asks. “Someone killed my father and made it look like a fucking suicide. Whoever is behind it is a dead man walking!”

“You know the rules,” I remind him. “You need evidence before the Council will allow any sort of revenge.” Knowing that standard applies to me as well, I’m glad I still have the recording on my phone of Izaiah confessing to killing Carmine. “The medical examiner will have a report soon. They’ll be able to tell if the wounds weren’t self-inflicted,” I say, trying to reassure him.

“My family will interrogate each and every one of our assassins,” Bertelli quickly adds. “If it was murder, and one of my people were behind it, then it was done without my permission or knowledge.”

“I won’t let the police close this case until we’re certain what happened,” Saint grumbles.

“You’re right. It’s only a matter of time before we find out if it was a suicide, what happened to Izaiah, and if either of those things was connected to someone killing my brother and trying to take me out too,” I agree. “Everyone should keep a low profile until then. We don’t know who the next target might be. That means underbosses too, Bowen. They might try to hit you to hurt your father,” I say as a thinly veiled warning to the traitor. “That goesfor you, too, Gideon with Zaven, and Eiden with Kai. Or is Raiden going to be your heir?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Eiden replies quietly, giving me a stern look that says he doesn’t think it’s any of my business. Or perhaps he noticed that I was subtly pointing a finger his way for Izaiah, Emilio, and Carmine’s deaths.

“Right, well, just keep your families close until this is all resolved. Let’s keep in touch. Meet again next month?” I suggest.

Everyone gives a nod of approval, so I adjourn the emergency Council meeting.

When Dre approaches Saint before he can walk out the door, I want to fucking throttle him.

“Hey, man, tell Stella we can put wedding plans on hold for however long she wants. Or if, now that your father is gone, she doesn’t want to go through with it —”

“The wedding is still on,” Saint interrupts him.

“It is?” Dre’s eyes widen in surprise.

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