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“I know how Frank had treated you,” her confession surprising me, “and that was the first thing I took care of.”
“Took care of,” I question, pretty sure I can piece together what she means.
“We had an arrangement,” her voice is flat, “and he didn’t uphold his end. He was supposed to take care of you, keep you safe from my family. Protect you. His disobedience was not acceptable.”
“Him hurting you,” she continues to speak as I try to put the pieces of this puzzle together, “that signed his death certificate. Learning that he had sold you to the Botticelli’s to pay off his own debts, that ensured his death would be slow and painful.”
“Frank is dead,” I question, conflicted as to whether or not I am saddened by the loss or happy the man who cared so little about me he could sell me is gone.
“Not yet,” her voice is cold, “his pain and suffering is going to be long and drawn out before I finally end his pathetic life.”
Of all things to register, my brain picks up on the fact that this woman hiding in the dark is either a ruthless killer or in charge of a bunch of ruthless killers.
“What are you going to do me?”
“Avalie,” her cold voice slightly warmer, “I would never hurt you. The men that came to the Botticelli house were there to save you. They work for your father, and they were supposed to bring you safely to me.”
“My father,” the words clearly a question, as I grew up my entire life under the assumption my own mother had no idea who my father was.
Her heels click on the marble floor as she slowly paces in the darkness, keeping her identity concealed from me.
“It was only a matter of time,” she continues ignoring my question, “before the Botticelli’s found out who you really were. We had to get you out of there before that could happen. Salvatore and Lorenzo would have either killed you or used you as leverage against us.”
“Renzo,” I shake my head, “he would never.”
“Renzo,” she repeats back to me in a condescending tone, “That boy is a ruthless killer. He would not hesitate.”
“Aren’t you a ruthless killer,” I sarcastically reply to her.
“Yes,” she replies as she slowly steps into the light.
ChapterThirty-Two
Lorenzo
“I heard about the hit on your house,” Dmitriy speaks through the phone, “and I want you to know it wasn’t us.”
“What the fuck do you know?”
“The Andreyev’s had nothing to do with this,” his voice firm, “Do you understand? Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I am sharing this with you in spite of the fact your family attacked mine today. We are not involved in this. We don’t want to go to war with you.”
“Just tell me what the fuck you know, Dmitriy.”
“I don’t know why,” he pauses to clear his throat, “but the Armenians and the Yakuza are working together.”
“No. That doesn’t make sense,” I speak aloud more to myself than to Dmitriy, “those two families have hated each other for decades. What could possibly unite them?”
“I don’t know Renzo,” Dmitriy answers my rhetorical question, “it’s something big.”
“Truce,” I question, “We will make amends for tonight’s attack.”
“I am the only one who knows it was your family,” Dmitriy replies, his accent as thick as ever, “because we are old friends, I will take it as a favor owed.”
“Yes. A favor owed from our family to yours,” I respond, “Do you know anything about Avalie?”
