Page 46 of A Touch of Dark
I don’t know and that terrifies me.
“How are the campaign preparations going?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. Looking at Daddy’s tortured expression, I realize I’ve stepped on a landmine instead.
“Slow,” he replies. “It seems my prior donors have been discouraged from continuing their contributions.”
He doesn’t have to say why: because of Damien.
The man isn’t done “discouraging” me, either. My cell phone rang once in the early hours of the morning, displaying a message from an unknown number. I deleted it without bothering to listen—I have no proof the call came from him—but it fit his MO.
He merely wanted to reinforce his presence and drill one fact into my skull: He can always find me.
“Juliana?” Daddy covers my hand with his. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” I widen my smile only to belatedly remember the topic at hand. “I’m so sorry, Daddy. Discouraged… What do you mean?”
“Intimidated.” He scowls into his mug. “It seems the bastard is determined to thwart my campaign before it can even begin.”
A preemptive strike. Like nipping a wayward rose in the bud—or poisoning a potential threat with oleander. Swift and malicious with an unmistakable artistic flair. The man truly is a sadist.
“But why?” I swallow hard, hating the hoarseness in my voice. “Why is he doing this?”
“Oh…” He shakes his head, but I don’t miss how his eyes cut to the discarded newspaper and back. “It’s this damn mess with the Borgetta case. What happened to his brother was unfortunate but—”
“His b-brother?” Coffee sprays from my mouth, splattering the table. I cough to disguise my shock. Then I snatch up a napkin and dab at what I can reach. “I-I mean…oh, now I understand.”
Of course. How could I be so fucking stupid? Damien’s brother was at the center of the case my father tried, and all of his cruel taunts make sense now:I watched you. Know thy enemy. You’re just like your father…
“They’re all criminals, that family. I don’t give a damn what anyone says. The other brother, Mateo, has been rumored to belong to a Columbian cartel, and Damien pretends to be above it, but he’s a part of it too.”
Daddy’s never sounded like this before. Callous. A sneer contorts his features; he’s a stranger. A heartbeat later, he squeezes my hand and chortles, his charming self in the blink of an eye. “But I don’t want you to worry about this, sweet pea. Enjoy your breakfast—”
“Daddy, can I ask you something?” The question is out before I can even process it.
“Anything, darling.”
“Why are some of your past cases struck from the record?” It should sound so harmless in hindsight. So harmless and innocent that my father nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Juliana…” His tone hardens in a way I’ve rarely heard. He spoke to criminals like this, seen only in clips of his glory days sometimes plastered over the news in conjunction with the current headlines. “Were you looking for a case in particular?”
“No,” I admit. Only now I wonder if I should be. If Damien was more than planting suspicions in my skull for the hell of it. “I was just curious. Looking for examples of all of the good you’ve done to help combat the press.”
“Old cases get cleared from the records all of the time,” he says. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”
He leaves, taking his cigar with him. Presumably to return to his office and fume.
The moment he’s gone, I grab the newspaper he left behind and read it surreptitiously from under the table. As expected, the headlining story contains even more scandal.
The man who prosecuted the Borgetta murder case ten years ago—a man with emergent ethical complaints related to evidence tampering—was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head last night. Self-inflicted, according to the police.
Daddy’s sudden interest in my security makes sense now. He’s afraid.
Though maybe he should be. I run my fingers along my shoulder, struck by a sudden realization: Simon isn’t the only monster bold enough to hunt me these days. Could I be the star of the next grisly headline? My stomach churns and breakfast becomes an afterthought.
If Damien Villa is behind these murders, it wouldn’t be much of a leap. Given the morbid nature of his art, there’s no telling where a man like him would draw the line from paralyzed subjects to lifeless victims. Murder could run in the Villa family. Though how would I know. I never had siblings—the closest thing I might compare that affection to is my friendship with Leslie.
And I’m still suffering the consequences of failing her.
How far might someone go for their brother?
