Page 167 of Vicious Saint
Resting my elbows on my knees, I tell him, “Gaslighting. I’m impressed.”
“I am not gaslighting you, Saint.”
“Doubling down too? Watchout.”
“I’m not—” He pauses, letting out a tired sigh. “I’m not doing any of those things.”
I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead and lean back in the chair. “Shew. That’s a relief. ’Cause I was gonna say you’ve been pulling pages out of the wrong book, mister.”
“Are you done with the theatrics?”
“Sorry, wrong Heathen.” I spin on the chair. “Or maybe Good Guy?”
“Saint.” My father beckons in his ‘I wish Jesus handed out shots instead of wine’ voice.
“Meh. You’re right.” I come to an abrupt stop. “Hard to tell those two love birds apart these days.”
The look of confusion surrounding my father’s usual stoic features makes it clear I’m doing that thing again…
“You’re getting quite comical for someone who barged into my office like a lunatic demanding explanations.”
Yup. That’s the one.
With a roll of my shoulders I sit up straight. “Agreed. Where were we?”
“Well, I was willing to cue you in on some of the situation, but now I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.”
Anger crashes into me, but I hold it back enough to grind out an, “I’m fine. Now tell me.”
My dad observes me for a few seconds before reaching into a drawer on his desk, sliding a manilla folder between us labeled in the center with an S.
Another with an I.
And another with an M.
I’m hit with a realization so blunt, my brain doesn’t process me reaching for a folder until my father slaps his hand down on it.
I. Fucking. Knew it.
“I’m gonna take a wild guess that those three letters are not here to represent the shitty computer game.”
“Your assumption is correct.”
My jaw aches from how hard it’s set. “Which one, Dad?”
“Which one, what?” One of the smartest men in the world continues to play stupid.
“Which fucking mafia did you piss off?”
And it better not be the Salvinis, because we both know how ruthless those motherfuckers are.
Especially the former head of the family, who was a straight sociopath known for his murder sprees for kicks before cancer had him kicking the bucket.
My father’s eyes widen. “How did you know?”
“Because I’myourfucking son.” With a yank of each folder, I read off, “Salvini, Ivanov, Montgomery.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right.”
