Page 28 of Tide of Treason
He nodded, then frowned. “Is something wrong? I thought Mr. Sforza approved this?”
“Oh, he did,” I replied. “I just had no idea my cousin wasrunning an underground brothel beneath my father’s flagship casino. Now, you wouldn’t happen to know if Luci, uh, Lucius Andrade, has anything to do with this, would you?”
The foreman blinked, entirely too innocent to be believed, and insisted he had no clue. A reaction equal parts gratifying and revolting. The puzzle pieces clicked together in that sick, twisted way they often do around here.
“Well,” I sighed, “what if I happened to have proof?”
He shook his head in a violent disagreement. “No—I can guarantee you, Ms. Sforza, that Mr. Andrade isn’t a part of whatever these tunnels are for.” He glanced around, as if worried someone might appear. “He’s the one—”
He clammed up so swiftly I nearly applauded.
I smiled. “The one what?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
A shame, truly. So I reached into my designer handbag and pulled out three thousand dollars wrapped with a rubber band. Grasping his hand, I pried open his fingers and set the money in his palm. “Here’s a little incentive, in case it jogs your memory.”
At the word incentive, my cousin looked like he might spit up his guts. He’d heard the rumors then, about how I liked to use a red-hot poker to persuade people, and he was thinking of his children, the wife he had to care for, the parents he probably supported. I knew this because he swallowed and nodded.
At last, he croaked, “The one who uses the tunnels.”
My eyes narrowed as I pushed my sunglasses on top ofmy head. So Lucius was a part of Franky’s little pleasure house venture.
“For what?”
“He, uh.” Cleared his throat. “He—I can’t give you many details. You understand. But some . . . some of the girls have been in situations of human trafficking, I think. And Mr. Andrade offers to buy their contracts from Mr. Sforza. I don’t know,” he quickly said, sweating profusely. “I really don’t know. He just—Mr. Andrade, he doesn’t want the girls to be hurt. I think he’s trying to help them. But he comes through the tunnels and speaks to one of us to escort them out in a different way so their handlers don’t follow.”
I mulled that information over, along with the taste of blood in my mouth from where I’d bit my tongue.
Of course Franky didn’t build a whorehouse without a conscience—or at least, without a partner with one.
Of course Lucius was the one ferrying the girls to safety.
God forbid the man fit neatly into the cruel little box I built for him. No. He had to go and wedge a halo between the cracks of my cynicism, tarnished but shining all the same.
As my thoroughly rattled relative vomited details at me, I decided to ignore the voice in the back of my head. The one whispering that I’d misjudged Lucius. The one that wondered if all the disdain I’d seen on his face was only a mask for the good he did with his time. This revelation wasn’t to be trusted. I knew that with a hard press in my chest, and it was this that kept me from smiling.
7 | Kayla
29 years old
Present day
The next morningkicked off with Mamma’s espresso biting the back of my throat and a decision that was surprisingly easy to make. I thumbed a red lipstick out of my pocket and pressed a cheeky little X onto her wooden table—barely visible, but there nonetheless. Decision made.
A door slammed somewhere deep in the house. Papà’s heavy footsteps approached, each one a thud against my temples. He hadn’t stopped pacing since I handed him the photo of the Portuguese girl. The fact he didn’t even look at her twice told me everything I needed to know. He already knew. About Braga. About Giorgio. About the tunnels.
“You think you clean your own house,” he muttered, “and then you find a rat under the floorboards.”
Another slam, this time his palm against the table, making the espresso slosh over the rim. A brown tear slid towards my X.
“Do you know what you’ve done, Kayla?”
I let my gaze coast to the window, where the Long Island wind pressed against glass. “If you don’t like the way I clean, Papà, you’re free to do it yourself.”
“You were supposed to watch him,” he gritted out. “Not blow his fucking brains across your office.”
“He wasn’t using them anyway,” I said sweetly, and Vito coughed into his hand to hide a laugh. It earned him a glare from my father, but no one dared punish Vito. He was the only thing more immovable than Uncle Brando’s ego.
