Page 73 of Filthy Little Games

I take a slow deep breath and focus on the rest of Emilio’swords. He doesn’t suspect me. Or, if he does, he’s damn good at pretending he doesn’t. He, no doubt, plans to pick up and torture all the drug dealers in the entire fucking city until someone confesses to killing Izaiah.

“Do you really think any of those pieces of shit would admit to what they’ve done if it was one of them?”

“I just want to question them.”

“Question and release them while they’re still breathing?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” I agree, knowing it’s fucked up, but at least if he’s busy chasing down a drug dealer, he won’t look closer at me as a suspect. “On one condition. You release every single one, and I mean they walk out on their two feet, not on a gurney or in a wheelchair. If or when you find the person you think is responsible, we bring in the boss of their borough before ending him. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“I’ll let the other bosses know what you’ll be doing and to notify me if you don’t keep your word.”

“Fuck that!” Emilio’s face turns red. “If you tell them, they’ll warn their guys, and they might run or try to cover for them.”

“Then I’ll also warn the bosses to keep track of their men, and if any run, we’ll assume they were in on it and do what we need to do to settle the score.”

Emilio settles deeper into his chair. “Fine. I have to find who did this, for my reputation’s sake and for Martha.”

“I know you do. Just like I have to find who lured me to the club, killed my brother, and had me and my guys arrested.”

I study his face with every word spoken. He doesn’t give anything away if he was behind it.

“Has Andre made any progress on the wedding?” Emilio asks, changing the subject, which is fine with me.

“Not that I’ve heard. Stella still seems…reluctant to speak to him.”

“She’ll marry him. I know a guy who can probably fit us in for the Tribeca Rooftop by the end of the year. I’ll tell him to put down a date, and that will be that.”

“Good. I’ll let Dre know you’ve got it handled.”

With a final nod, Emilio pushes his chair back and gets to his feet.

“I appreciate you meeting me so late. Time slips away from me lately,” he says as I open the conference room door to escort him back to his waiting guards at the elevator.

“Glad we could keep it short,” I mutter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dinner is getting cold.”

This time, Emilio does chuckle. I don’t wait for him to get on the elevator, but I take my time walking back down the hall to my office.

By the time I reach for the door handle and glance back over my shoulder, the three men are stepping onto the elevator.

Thank fuck.

When I try to push the door open, though, it jams. Glancing down in the two-inch opening I see Zara on the floor, crawling away.

“Sorry,” she says, scrambling to her feet and swiping at her cheeks. Her damp cheeks.

“What’s wrong,micetta mia?” I close and lock the door before wrapping her in my arms.

“There’s something…something I haven’t told you,” she says through hiccups, her face pressed to my shoulder.

“Okay. Are you going to tell me now?” I whisper.

“Izaiah wasn’t…he wasn’t Oriana’s father.”

That’s the last fucking thing I expected her to say. “What do you mean?” I ask as I take a step back to see her flushed, damp face.

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