Page 16 of His Deadly Lies

Princess Mia.

The bodies hang behind me, and I leave them where they are, heading toward the door that leads to a smaller antechamber just off the main basement space. A call will bring the cleanup crew and have it taken care of.

I’ve only seen the princess herself a time or two whenever the old man deems it appropriate that she sit in on our meetings. Each time she is made up perfectly, a gorgeous doll with golden skin and dark almond-shaped eyes. She stares vacuously out at the rest of the room with her gaze skipping over everyone in it.

Aloof. Gorgeous. Untouchable.

She’s the kind of woman whom the general populace has no choice but to look and not touch.

Bringing her to her knees is a pleasure I’ve thought about before, especially if there’s a little resistance from her. A different kind of breaking than the one I’d just done. A more pleasurable kind because it appeases the beast inside of me on two levels.

Asserting my dominance over the Balestra empire…and over the woman, specifically. A young and beautiful woman.

I let the basement door swing shut behind me and make my way toward the sink in the nearby laundry room to scrub myself raw.

“Carter? Are you done playing?”

Drying myself, I saunter toward the living room.

My sister lounges on a recliner on the attached patio with a sun hat shading her face from view. The doors are open to the interior of the house, and my footsteps are too heavy for me to go unnoticed.

“What does it matter?” I ask. “I like to play.

She flicks a hand up to shoot me a vulgar gesture. “I’m just curious, asshole.” Her tone is teasing. “I want to know when you’ll be heading out and if you can pick up the dry cleaning on your way back.”

“I’m not going to stop at the fucking cleaners, Yvette,” I grumble under my breath.

Forty-two years old, and my baby sis is still running circles around me and keeping me wrapped around her pinky. It’s a particular gift of hers.

“You might want to stop and get yourself some more surgical gloves on your way back too,” she trills. “I’m sure you’re running low due to all your play.”

I grab the sides of the doorjamb and lean forward, the sun warm on my face. “You know, a normal mom would say to keep her son out of trouble, but instead, you’re asking me to run errands for you.”

“I know you’ll be fine, and Ricardo is smart enough to take care of himself,” she replies. “It’s time for him to step up and learn the ropes on these terms. Don’t you think?”

Scoffing, I shake my head. “You’re one of a kind, Yvette.”

Yvette has always been the kind of mother who prefers to jettison her chicks out of the nest and let them fly or die. She coddles on occasion, but more, she fosters their independence. The same way our parents did for us when they got into this game.

“I wish it was different.”

My statement gives her pause, and she slowly unfolds herself from the lounge chair, tugging her glasses down to look at me. I’m no longer speckled in blood, but the way she stares…does she see the ghosts inside of me?

“Carter, we do what we have to do,” she adds. “There is no other path for us. Not once we decided the path we’d take.”

Why am I thinking about this now? Call it a nostalgic bent, call it leftover emotion I’m not sure where to plant after killing those men. “But if there was,” I start, “wouldn’t you want your kids to have a different life than ours?”

Yvette shakes her head. “These thoughts are unbecoming of you. You need to stop. The meeting today will be another stepping stone, and with enough guts and guile, we’ll be where Mom and Dad always wanted us to be.” She gestures toward the house and the finishes she picked out herself. “We’re already a thousand miles away from where we used to be.”

The three-room cabin on the streets of Detroit. The hole in the roof covered with a tarp where we never had enough food in our bellies or warm clothes on our backs. Our overly strict parents who ingrained in us a desire to be better, do better, have better.

We’ve certainly advanced from our own childhood.

What of the cost, though?

Yvette and I found a way to make money but have we damned her children to the consequences of our choices?

She stops in front of me and trails her palm down my face, much the same way I’d done for her son, but her touch is different. Softer and more calming. Her blue eyes are the exact color of mine, although her hair hasn’t gone prematurely gray the same way.

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