Page 85 of Tortured Hearts
“Speaking of which,” he says, swerving back on topic, “what, now?”
Good question. Toscano’s ultimatums have turned a gauntlet into a minefield.
“Call your contact and offer him whatever he wants. I need those accounts decrypted.”
“The man can’t be bought, Gianni.”
“Everyone can be bought,” I counter, flashing a cold smile. “You just have to find the right price.”
He blows out a resigned breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good. By the way, what do you know about women’s fashion?” I ask, exhaustion making the jump from bribe to bride. “I’m going to need you to?—”
“Gianni…”
“Don’t test me, Anton. Especially after you went behind my back and gave Tos?—”
“Gianni,” he stresses, tipping his chin across the room.
I turn my head just as Becca’s eyes flutter open.
We lock eyes, then she drags her heavy-lidded gaze down my body. “Well, if it isn’t the don of New Jersey.”
While her jab makes me wince, my need for her overrides it.
“Doc,” I breathe, clearing the distance. “Thank God…”
She shoots up like a lightning strike and shoves her palm forward, stopping me in my tracks. “God had nothing to do with it, Gianni. I’m here because of the Devil,remember?”
Anton clears his throat. “I, uh, I’m just going to go check on that thing in the car.”
I don’t answer or even look his way. My eyes stay on Becca until the soft click of the door closing shifts my attention to the playing card in her hand. “If you’re so angry, why keep souvenirs?”
“It’s not a souvenir. It’s a trophy for surviving Hell.”
“Where’smytrophy?”
“For what, sinking into a lower circle?” She tosses the card on the coffee table. “You lied to meagain.”
She flings the words like poisoned darts. While I’ll absorb all the venom she can dish out, I’m not doing it sober. Walking to the bar, I pour myself a highball of whiskey, down it, then fill it to the top again. “I thought I was doing what was best for you,” I offer, scrubbing a hand over my growing beard. “I wanted to give you a clean slate.”
“That worked out well.”
“You weren’t supposed to come upstairs.”
“I’m sorry,” she drawls, pressing her hand dramatically to her chest. “I didn’t realize your little murder party was invite-only.”
“That’s enough, Becca.”
“Enough?” She lets out a shrill laugh. “Oh, I’m just getting started. Do you get a kick out of driving knives into my chest, or does being sadistic just come second nature to you?”
“I said, that’s enough.”
“You told me not to worry because you had a plan. I begged you to tell me, but you asked for my trust, and like an idiot, I gave it.”
Within three steps, I’m in front of her with my hand in her hair. “I didn’t lie to you.”
“Oh? So that wasn’t your bloody coronation Iwalked into?”
