Page 20 of Filthy Little Games

Days passed by in a blur as I held a service, laid my brother to rest, and had to endure the endless line of people offering their sympathy when the only thing I wanted to do was get drunk, crawl into a hole somewhere, and never come out.

I couldn’t even shed a fucking tear for him, at least not in public. Dons don’t cry or show any sign of weakness. That shit isn’t allowed. So, I stuffed my feelings of loss down deep to deal with later. Right now, I’m just angry.

So angry that the day after I buried my brother, I’m standing in the middle of a tiny apartment in Queens with another don’s dead son at my feet. His knife still jutting out of my thigh, and a beautiful, completely naked witness staring up at me like I’m not a murderous monster, but her new hero and savior.

Goddamn her!

Why did she have to be involved in this shit? If she hadn’t set everything in motion, we never would’ve gone to The Vault that night, and Carmine would still be alive.

And my brother was wrong about what’s in her panties; she has a pretty little pussy, not big, brass balls.

Jesus. Between my grief, fury, and lack of sleep, I know I’m not firing on all cylinders. I should’ve gone home after finding her at the grocery store, not stalked the parking lot for an hour before following Zara back to her apartment.

But there was something in my gut, telling me she was going to be the key to proving it was Izaiah Rovina and his father who came at me through the club raid.

And I was right.

I have her phone with the text messages from Izaiah and the recorded audio of his confession before he tried to kill her.

So why didn’t I let him slit her throat?

She deserves to be punished for the part she played in my brother’s death. It’s not something I can ever forgive or forget.

My father would’ve put her and Izaiah down as soon as he saw the texts. He never hesitated to take out anyone who got in his way or threatened his livelihood, not even my own mother, the love of his life.

She stupidly thought the three of us would be safe in witness protection after she took my father’s money, ratted him and his men out to the feds, and ran off. She was wrong.

I still remember the day my father came for us. I’ve never seen him so goddamn furious. He was like a tornado, blowing throughthe house, smashing and destroying every object in his path until he found the three of us hiding in the attic.

After he unloaded those bullets into her body, he asked me and Carmine if we understood why she had to die. I gave a nod of understanding, even though I didn’t really know why. I was still in shock at his violent attack on the woman who loved and raised us, who I knew he had once loved. I saw them together every single day. There was no other way to describe their relationship. My father loved my mother and would’ve done anything for her. Still, he killed her when she betrayed him.

I’ve never killed a woman in cold blood, and I’m not entirely sure I could.

Now, here I am with Izaiah dead, and Zara a fucking witness to his murder.

Not that I will ever regret killing him.

That fucker admitted he was responsible for the raid. He deserved what he got for killing Carmine and Jasper. I just hate that I had to do it so swiftly, right in front of Zara, giving her the power to end my life as I know it.

My freedom lies in the hands of an odd woman, who I’m almost certain aided an armed robber earlier tonight.

And if I let her live, she can never leave my sight. I can’t have her run off to the police and tell them what I’ve done, or worse, go tell Emilio Rovina I killed his oldest son before I find evidence he ordered Izaiah to set up the raid.

I hate I didn’t get Izaiah to confess to his father’s role before ending him. Maybe there will be messages from Emilio in Izaiah’s phone. If he was involved, he’s dead too. I’ll just have to be much smarter about his death if I want to avoid a mafia war. And being smarter means having solid proof he’s guilty to show the other families.

But that’s a problem for another day.

Right now, I’ve got a huge mess to clean up or else I’ll end up serving a life sentence in prison.

“Now what?” Zara’s voice sounds way too calm. I expected crying or screaming, not a simple question. One I don’t have the answer to yet.

“Now I have to figure out what the fuck to do with him. And by the way, I have your phone, so there’s no way for you to call the police.”

Without hesitating, she says, “I don’t want to call the police.”

“Right.”

“I know who his father is, and I don’t want that even bigger piece of shit to find out his son died in my apartment. We have to get him out of here, then clean everything fast.”

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