Page 17 of Sardonic Burn

“Of course it won’t. I’ll have his head sent flying before he can even think of doing it again.”

I grin in response.

I love my father. He’s always doted on me. He loves all of his children, but, as the troublemaker of the family, I’m the proud cause of his early gray hair. He will never say it, but this isn’t the life he wanted for any of us.

It’s a tradition, and it must continue.

If I can’t ease his mind, at least I’ll make him proud so that he doesn’t worry as much.

FIVE

"If this continues, I’ll have to open a botanic garden.”

Niko ignores me and brings the last flowerpot into the living room. He turns to look at me with an eye roll before slumping to the ground, exhausted. The elevator is getting fixed, so he had to bring each and every single flowerpot up seven floors.

“Take it up with mom.” He sighs and grabs a whiskey bottle from the table before plopping right back on the floor. He opens the lid and takes a swig of it, sighing in relief once the alcohol hits his system.

“I’ll have to,” I mumble.

Ever since little De Santis stabbed my thigh and I got discharged from the hospital, my mother's been trying to pamper me. It’s weird. She’s never acted like this before, and I don’t know how to properly handle it. I was barely able to leave the manor and come back home.

All of the flowerpots are gifts.

I don’t like flowers.

“How is your thigh?”

I take a seat next to him, grab the bottle from his hands, and take a sip. It burns as it slides down my throat, but the burning, tingling sensation is pleasant. It makes me want to have more of it.

“It’s fine. I had my stitches removed this morning. Sore, but it’s not painful.”

“That’s good.” He sighs.

This is the point in time where I either ask the question that’s been on my mind since the night I killed Franco De Santis, or I keep my mouth shut forever. My curiosity and that probing sensation in the pit of my stomach won’t let me remain silent.

“Niko,” I say, and he turns his head to look at me. “Why did Franco De Santis have your phone number?”

Niko freezes. His eyes are staring at me, though he seems to be looking through me. He doesn’t blink and doesn’t move. Instead, he’s just… existing. His silence speaks volumes, and that probing feeling in my stomach increases.

“I don’t know.”

“Before another lie leaves your mouth, I’m giving you the opportunity to tell me. I haven’t told Father, and I don’t plan to, unless you force my hand. So let me ask you again. Why did Franco De Santis have your phone number?”

He swallows a knot in his throat before taking another big sip of the whiskey. His hands start to tremble, and I take the bottle from his hands.

My carpet is white. No way in hell I’m allowing him to get messy and ruin it.

“Fran and I—”

“Fran? What the fuck is up with that nickname?”

Niko’s eyes bore into mine, and realization hits me.

“No, no. Oh, please don’t tell me it’s what I think it is.”

Immediately, I start feeling bad, my chest tightening. Niko and I were always close, especially when we were in our teenage years. We aren’t as close as we used to be, given that he’s busy finishing his education and I’m focused on taking over the family business.

But it doesn’t mean I wanted to take his target.

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