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“I’m sorry,” he repeats, gazing down at me. So many emotions flit across his expression, I can’t decipher them all. But I do see genuine regret. “You’re right. You deserve a real explanation. Not some half-ass, political response to keep my secrets close to my chest.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” His hand lifts, and he coils a strand of my loose hair around his finger. He stares at the red strands. “The man who hopes to take over the Puerto Rican gang requested a meeting last night. We spoke. He made threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
“The kind that puts your safety at risk if I do anything to hinder his takeover.”
“Why would you do that?” I tilt my head to the side. “Is he a bad guy?”
“He’s not trustworthy.”
“Are any criminals trustworthy?” I retort.
His green eyes lift and meet mine. “Are you calling me untrustworthy,macushla?”
I just give him a look.
He chuckles softly. Shaking his head, he goes back to looking at the hair wrapped around his finger. His thumb strokes the smooth strands. “While those of us who operate in the morally gray world may be considered untrustworthy to outsiders, there’s a code we live by. We have honor. The man who wants to lead the gang in Harlem does not abide by this code. He’s a despicable excuse for a man.”
The vehemence in his tone takes me by surprise. “So you don’t want him to take over?”
“I don’t.” He exhales. “But I can’t do anything to stop him.”
“Why not?”
His hand falls away and he takes a step back. Though I couldn’t feel him caressing my hair, I find myself missing his touch. The affection was… nice. The gentle way he touches me and his soft tone are so at odds with the formidable man he presents to the world. I don’t know which is the real Declan
He could’ve killed your brother,I remind myself. It’s concerning how often I need to do that. It’s almost like I don’t believe it could be true…
“Because he’s blackmailing me.”
I frown.Thatis not what I expected him to say. “What is he blackmailing you about?”
“Something I haven’t done, but he has evidence that makes me look guilty.”
He’s telling the truth. I can’t explain how I know, but I do.
Declan’s openness is a welcome change from the way the men in my life usually treat me. Even Nero tends to sugarcoat the truth out of a sense of brotherly obligation. But Declan isn’t trying to protect my feelings. He’s being honest with me, and I want to take advantage of this moment. I want to ask him about Antony’s death.
I’d stayed up all night wondering how I could find more information about what happened the night my brother died, but I don’t have any connections to help me get information. I don’t know any police officers. I don’t have a relationship with the leaders of other crime families. My sheltered upbringing has left me in the dark and it will continue to do so.
But I can tell Declan about the cigar label in the crime scene photo. I can gauge his reaction when I ask him about it. I think I’ll be able to tell if he’s lying.
It’s a decent plan. The only one I’ve been able to come up with since seeing the crime scene photos. But I don’t say anything.
Instead, Declan continues confiding in me, distracting me from my questions and creating new ones, “Until I can find a way to prove my innocence, I can’t interfere in Harlem. But I fear the damage done in the meantime might be too great to fix once Luis Diaz is dealt with.”
“Wait.” That name sounds familiar. “Isn’t that the same man who was with Joey at our engagement party?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” I can still remember how uneasy I felt under his attention that night. “I see.”
Declan’s eyes search mine. “I can’t take the chance that he will do something to you. He’s a wild card.”
“I understand.”
