Page 113 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
My fingers itch to pull the triggers. Both of them.
“And what about Father’s hope that I would succeed him?” I taunt. “That had to rub you up the wrong way ...”
He glares at me as if he didn’t think I had the balls to confront him on that. Then he laughs, dark and low. “Why do you think we find ourselves at this impasse? What do you think started this chain of events?”
“I don’t know, Savero. All I know is what Augie told me.”
Savero relaxes his chin onto the barrel of the gun. “The fucker always was a little too close to Father for his own good. But let me burst this bubble for him. I didn’t find out about Father’s succession plan from that rat. I found out from Father himself.”
What?
With his uninjured arm, Savero taps at a part of his jacket that covers an inside pocket. “Father wrote a letter. To you.”
My jaw drops, which I’m sure is his intention.
“It goes into great detail about how he wants the family to be carved up and managed, with you at the helm. Me?” He laughsagain, but there’s more defeat in his tone than darkness. “I wasn’t even considered fit to be a capo.”
My heart drums. Father didn’t even want Savero as a capo? That would have had to hurt. In seconds my fingers relax. I’m unsure I have the conviction to pull the triggers anymore.
Then his lips purse into a point, and I hardly recognize him. “But I’ve fucking shown him. I have some lucrative deals lined up that would have doubled our investments, and a virgin bride I could have thrown around a room for a night.”
I let out a morbid chuckle, drawing his gaze to mine.
I’m straining to tell him she’s no longer a virgin, but that was never all she was, and to gloat about that would be to undermine everything she is.
“You don’t deserve her,” I say. “And she certainly never deserved you.”
His bullet-like eyes swivel to mine, and I know I can’t prolong this. I have more important places to be and more important people to be with.
“We could have been epic, you and me,” I say, and I mean it. “But you couldn’t see through your hate.”
His shoulders slump. “Do it, Cris.”
I freeze. He hasn’t called me Cris since I was a kid, and it was so long ago it feels alien. I don’t realize until now how much I’ve yearned for the brotherly connection we may have once had.
“Don’t . . .” I murmur.
His lip curls up at one end, but there’s sadness in it. “Would it help if I told you I would have raped her on our wedding night?”
My breath escapes me, and in the blink of an eye, I can see he’s taunting me to get it over with. I don’t know which way is up anymore. All I know is that a man who has lied to me—hated me—all my life just suggested he’d hurt Trilby in the worst possible way.
He senses my conviction collapsing and moves suddenly to knock one of the guns from my grip. We both make a dive for it and I feel his knee drive up into my ribcage knocking the wind right out of me. I roll onto my back and in a split second he’s standing over me, a boot poised just inches above my face. His gun rests casually by his side like he isn’t going to need it, but I’ve always been quicker than him.
“Wait–“ I plead.
He twists his foot so he can see my eyes.
“I would have loved you, brother,” I whisper.
Just as he catches a breath I cock the gun and shoot him through the jaw.
He drops heavily to the ground and I leap to my feet to take a last look at his dying features. His lips are contorted into a sneer until the last of his breath leaves him. Only then do they soften. Only then does he look like a human being, like the brother he could have been had he not let his hatred eat him up inside.
I stare at him for a full minute, then I snap into autopilot. I shove the glocks into my waistband and pull the two Mexican bodies inside the warehouse, out of sight of the port workers. I retrieve the door from the floor and prop it up, sealing the bodies from the road. At the very least, I’d prefer for none of Castellano’s employees to see two dead and dismembered corpses in their place of work. They’ve earned their dinner—they should be able to eat it.
I flip open my phone and place a call. It’s the type of call I haven’t had to make in more than ten years, but as it turns out, it’s like riding a bike. You never forget.
“I need a cleaner.”
