Page 87 of His Promise

There was a time when I trusted Anthony with my life. Now I won’t trust him with an hour. “All right,” I say with a slow nod. My curiosity is getting the best of me. “Let’s go.”

We leave in Anthony’s BMW and go to an Italian restaurant belonging to the Grucos. It’s only eleven, so the lunch rush hasn’t set in and the restaurant is sparse with people. Still, we’re seated at the back of the restaurant where parties are held and have complete privacy.

The waiter brings us waters, as well as a basket of breadsticks that neither of us touch. Anthony begins trying to make small talk, and I’m not surprised when the waiter doesn’t come back to take our orders or so much as give us a menu. This isn’t about lunch or catching up, but Anthony still hasn’t let on what this is about.

“Would you cut the bullshit?” I shake my head. “You don’t need to ingratiate me. I’m beginning to think you should be the one running for office.”

Anthony laughs and runs his finger over his glass, smearing condensation. “That’s probably fair.”

He takes a long drag of air and places his hand flat on the table as he lets it out. His eyes meet mine. “I wanted to apologize for my brothers’ behavior over the course of this election. They were trying to intimidate you, and it was a shitty thing to do to family. I want to make it clear to you that you can do what you want. No one will hold it against you.”

I huff. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” Anthony says with sincerity. “Our family is counting on you to win, and we’re counting on your support for our projects. But there are ways around legalities, as there always has been. And…”

“What?” I ask sharply.

Anthony shrugs. “I don’t want you to disappear again because you’re pissed about a business deal. We’re family. First and foremost.”

“That is the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

“It isn’t a lie.” Anthony’s demeanor turns agitated, and he shifts in his seat. My guard slips some because of it. He doesn’t look fake right now, and the agitation isn’t coming off as threatening. It’s coming off as defensive.

Is he serious?

I take a gulp of water and clear my throat as I set it down. “I think we both know family doesn’t come before business with the Grucos. Otherwise, my father would still be alive.”

“Is that what you think?” he asks, his eyes narrowed. “That your father died because of bad business?”

I glare and grit my teeth, my anger bubbling to the surface. Ten years’ worth.

“What am I supposed to think?” I snap.

“Colter,” Anthony’s eyes soften and he sighs. He rubs the back of his neck and takes his time like he doesn’t know how to tell me something. “Your dad wasn’t a good guy. You know that, right?”

“And yours is?”

Anthony shrugs. “Some people may not think so. But ruthless isn’t the same thing as cruel. Your dad was cruel.”

I bite my tongue, holding my next defensive remark back. I don’t know what Anthony is talking about. Yes, my father was a prick. He proved that time and time again with my mother. And oftentimes, me. But beyond that, I don’t know much about what he did for his family business, or outside of it for that matter.

Anthony continues. “Unhinged is probably a better word for it, to be frank… My father tried to talk to him about it on multiple occasions, but it didn’t do any good. Colter, please listen to me. Antonio was my father’s brother. There wasnothinghe wouldn’t try to help your dad. What he did was not an easy decision.”

My throat thickens and I swallow. I never expected them to admit to murdering my father, and now that it’s out in the open, I don’t know how to respond to it. I’ve spent a decade hating my family for giving me no explanation, but now I’m afraid to ask for one.

But I do anyway.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I say, shaking my head. “How was he unhinged?”

Anthony takes a large pull of his water and sets the glass on the table. He stands and gestures toward the closed door to the party room. “Come on, I have something in my SUV to show you.”

Warily, I stand and follow Anthony. I don’t like this. Trepidation floods me and my lungs fill with concrete. It feels a hell of a lot like I’m walking to my own slaughter.

We get to his BMW and climb inside. Anthony pulls a manilla folder from the glove box and hands it to me. It’s tattered and discolored like it’s more than a few years old and has been handled multiple times. There are two female names on the front that I don’t recognize, along with the Las Vegas police emblem.

I open the folder and glimpse a police report, written up at the scene of a murder. It goes into detail about the bodies of two teenage girls, discovered beaten, raped, and strangled under a bridge outside the city. One’s leg had been broken from having been thrown off the bridge.

“What the fuck is this?”

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