Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“I see,” he says after a moment. “Keep me posted.”
“What happened?” Celeste asks when he ends the call.
Ryan looks at me. “Santino Russo is dead.”
The words sink in slowly. Someone’s death shouldn’t make me happy, but after what he did to my dad, I can’t help but feel a measure of satisfaction. Relief.
There are many things I could ask, but the question that takes priority is, “How?” Because I hope he suffered.
Ryan sneers. “Heart attack.”
The first thought that runs through my mind is if Angelo had time to say goodbye. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
I search my brother’s eyes. “Who told you?”
“I have informants in high places who keep me updated with the current state of affairs.”
That sounds sinister. It sounds too much like having spies in dangerous organizations.
“The universe served justice,” Celeste says. “I always tell you not to fuck with karma, Ryan.”
Too late.
Ryan is already knee-deep in crime, running Dad’s legitimate as well as illegitimate business. Our silence implicates us in those crimes.
We’re accomplices.
If karma decides to come for the rest of us, we can only hope we’ll already be dead.
Chapter
Eighteen
Angelo
* * *
The double funeral took place not even two weeks ago, and here I am again, laying my father to rest. We didn’t have an open-coffin burial for my mother and sister because of how the accident mutilated Adeline. For my father, it’s different. I adhered to tradition, having him laid out in his bespoke black suit. I had his coffin placed among flowers, candles, and incense in the lounge where people can pay their last respects.
My uncles and cousins arrive first, then colleagues and business associates, and lastly the staff. Roch is among the guards. Seeing his face bugs me, but before I can act on it, Uncle Nico pushes a tumbler with amber liquor in my hand. I sniff the alcohol out of pure habit, registering in the back of my mind that it’s Scotch as I swallow. Just like the previous time, I sit at the table amidst an abundance of food and shake the hands that people thrust at me. Only, this time, I’m at the head of the table. And this time, I drink. I shoot back the Scotch and pour another. And another. Until I’m slightly drunk.
Instead of numbing me, the alcohol intensifies the feelings I suppressed under the muck in my chest. The one that floats to the surface like oil drifting on water is anger. The one that ignites is fury. How I manage to keep a lid on it is a miracle. It brews quietly. Deadly. It waits for a spark so it can finally explode.
I force it down, because I’m not going to show my true nature at my father’s funeral. Everyone is watching. They want me to step out of line. I can’t afford to do that. Not now. Not here. I have to show these motherfuckers I have control. That I’m capable of running the business.
I don’t miss that no one from the village is attending. I take note of that slap in the face. Let them despise and hate me. Fear is a much stronger bargaining chip than kindness.
When it’s time for the staff to queue and Roch shakes my hand, I stand. My feet are steady, but my insides are shaking. It’s the wrong time to do this. I know. Can I help myself? No.
“You’re fired,” I say.
He stumbles back a step, looking as if I slapped him. “I’ve been in your employ since I turned fifteen.”
“Exactly.” My smile is cold. “Now you’re not. Gather your things and leave my property. If I ever see you here again, I’ll kill you.”
A hand falls on my arm. I look at the face of the owner, my muscles tensing for action. It’s my uncle.
“Angelo,” Uncle Nico says under his breath.
I don’t care who hears me make death threats. No one will dare to speak up against me.
I shake off my uncle’s touch and direct a single word at Roch. “Now.”
Roch blinks.
“Angelo,” Uncle Nico says again.
I raise a hand, silencing my uncle. He shuts his mouth. I’m in charge now. And no one lays a fucking finger on Sabella.
No one but me.
“You’re not yourself,” Uncle Nico whispers.
Uncle Enzo is the wiser brother. “Go, Roch. You heard Angelo.”
Roch clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t argue. He knows when it’s dangerous to open his mouth. Bowing slightly, he says, “It was an honor to work for you, Mr. Russo.” Then he turns and walks from the room.
“That was a mistake,” Uncle Nico says in my ear.
I fix him with a stare. “Are you questioning my decisions?”
He doesn’t falter under my look. “It was a mistake to let him go.” He says the last part with meaning, making sure I get it.
I do. He’s telling me I should’ve killed Roch instead of firing him, not because of what he did but because my father always said it’s unwise to leave loose ends.