Page 6 of His Deadly Lies

We’ve got a serious problem.

I type out the line and press send, my stomach dropping, the rest of me ready to drop, tired to the point where not even the buzz of alcohol can get me back to normal. A single pulse of pain rips through my head.

No choice. I have to let them know.

There’s no need to wait for a response to the text. Whether they jolt into immediate action…that’s up to them.

Much to my everlasting shock and amazement, the cell starts to vibrate before I have a chance to return it to my clutch. There’s no number on the screen, but I know who’s on the other end.

“Hi, Daddy.” I answer the phone on the second ring because otherwise, I’m going to be in deeper shit than I already am.

Edward Balestra’s faint chuckle comes through loud and clear. “You only call me that when things have truly gone south, Mia. What happened? What is this problem?”

I draw in a long, deep breath.

How to explain in a way he’ll take seriously, or without going off the deep end and blaming me for this?

The word problem in this family is never a good sign for any of us. It usually means that someone is going to die. Papa knows the lingo as intricately as I do; both of us trained from a young age and bred for this life with no way to escape it.

“I didn’t use the word lightly,” I reply with a hint of steel in my voice. “What started as a few missing packages in our shipments have now become a pattern. This is the fourth time we’ve had a delivery turn up missing several boxes. They made an unauthorized stop in Fort Wayne.”

The sound of breaking glass erupts from Dad’s end. With no one around to see me, I wince.

Each one of Edward Balestra’s three daughters inherited his red-hot temper. I like to think mine isn’t as bad as the others, but it’s a pipe dream.

Papa sees the temper as a weapon, not something he easily loses control over. He’s worked hard since his birth, according to him, in Crete to hone the anger into a gun he willingly fires off when necessary.

He expects me to do the same.

Oh, a part of him is overprotective.

He wants what is best for his girls, but I’m the oldest. Things are different. I’m the best asset he’s got and the one primed to take over the business. He hates me doing the fieldwork. What other choice is there?

“How many?” Papa asks.

“Three.”

My steps slow on the way to the long black town car, and Rafel hurries to catch up to open the door for me. It isn’t even a thought for me to ask him to do it. He just does.

Trained. The way I’ve been trained.

I slide into the back seat, and he shuts the door with a decisive click behind me. Even here, with the divider window and the dark tint, I’m not able to drop my mask completely. Not yet.

Edward is silent for a long time, and I picture the expression on his face. The brooding, ponderous set of those dark eyebrows only now showing a hint of gray. “We’ll discuss it,” he says at last. “Are you on your way home?”

A glance out the window shows Rafel heading back into the low building attached to the back of the club. “I’m just waiting on Rafel to finish some work,” I say. “Then we’ll be on the way.”

I glance down at the slender gold band of the watch around my wrist. The evening wrapped sooner than expected. It’s a small blessing, but not when I weigh it against the missing containers.

My father groans. Then nothing.

“What do I need to do?” I ask into the dead silence. “What steps do we take to make this problem disappear?”

In the next heartbeat, Rafel returns, his gun back in its holster at his hip. He wipes his hands on a black cloth and stuffs the fabric deep into his pocket, taking a moment to straighten his tie before manning the driver’s seat.

He pulls the town car away from the curve half a heartbeat later.

“I’m pondering that myself,” Papa replies. “Perhaps we need to have Isabella step up and start to take some responsibility. Do more for the family—”

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