Page 7 of Dirty Game
"Liar." But there's no heat in it. "Maria says you barely touch your meals."
Maria, his housekeeper.
I didn't know she reported on me.
I should have guessed.
Everything in Varrick's world is observed, catalogued, and controlled.
"I'm not used to eating much," I admit.
"Your father?" His tone is casual, but there's something dangerous underneath it.
I touch my wrist again, feeling the scars through the watch band. "Among others."
He sets down his glass carefully. "Names."
"It doesn't matter. They're?—"
"Names, Rosalynn."
The command in his voice makes me answer before I can think better of it. "My father. My brother Marco, when he was drunk…" and I keep telling him until he looks satisfied.
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
Varrick goes perfectly still, the kind of stillness that comes before someone snaps.
"Tommy Fitzgerald touched you?"
"Not... not the way you're thinking. He just liked to hurt me where it wouldn't show. Said it was a reminder to my father about payment schedules." The words tumble out, secrets I've never told anyone. Something about the darkness, the blood still lingering in the air, makes confession easier.
"Is that why Enzo really offered you to me? To keep you from Fitzgerald?"
I laugh, bitter and sharp. "No. He offered me to you because I was the only thing of value my father had left. Tommy was just a bonus he'd have to deal with later."
Varrick pulls out his phone, types something quickly. "Tommy Fitzgerald runs a gambling den on the south side."
"Ran," I correct quietly. "He died. Heart attack, they said."
His eyes find mine. "They lied."
The implication hangs between us.
Two months ago, was when my father's debts came due, and three weeks later, is when my life changed.
When the offer was made.
When Varrick Bane decided I was worth six million dollars.
"You killed him." It's not a question.
"I don't tolerate men who hurt women. Especially women who belong to me."
"I didn't belong to you then."
"The moment Enzo said you were my payment, you became mine. Retroactively." He moves toward me again, slower this time, telegraphing his movements. "The scars on your wrist. Show me."
My fingers fumble with the watch band. I've hidden these for so long, the shame of them burning as bright as the cigarettes that made them.
