Ruin Me With Lies, page 10
He pats the top of Ricky’s head like a proud father. “And that kind of courage should be commended, don’t you think?” A slow smile curves his lips. “I’m in a merciful mood. So I’m willing to let him go. Because he wasn’t a coward. He told me exactly what he thought of me. To my face. A quality that will make him a worthy adversary on the other side.”
Ricky perks up at the prospect of being spared. His bowed head lifting now, chin jutting out with pride, eyes sparkling with victory as he stares the men down, basking in Stefano’s praise. Completely oblivious to the devious set up.
Until one of the men steps forward, expression grim as he grits out, “Hell nah. I don’t fuck with traitors.”
With that, he points his gun and shoots Ricky in the gut.
Eyes widening in shock, Ricky shudders and topples over.
Another man steps up. “You fuck with the family, you don’t deserve to breathe.”
Bang. A shot to the thigh.
A third man moves forward. “Death before dishonor.”
Bang. A shot to the chest.
One by one, they come forward. Each putting a bullet somewhere new. Each making a statement.
By the time Luca steps up—having appeared at some point—Ricky’s body is riddled with holes. He delivers the kill.
Bang. One clean shot right between the eyes.
As Ricky’s body goes still, his lifeless gaze frozen in shock, Luca spits at him and grumbles, “I fucking hate traitors.”
Stefano tsks. “Good Lord, you men are merciless.” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
Dipping my head, I bite back a smile. He’s so full of shit.
“Ricky’s been pulling a lot of questionable shit lately,” one of the men comments. “But being a Judas? That’s where I draw the line.”
Stefano taps a finger against his chin, scanning their faces one by one.
“Don’t think for a second that I don’t know,” he says evenly. “There are quislings standing here, looking me in the face, lying about being loyal to the family.” His voice hardens. “My mercy expires at the end of the hour. You have until then to pick your side and fucking go. Prove yourself to the man on the other side. Then…” He pauses, the air stretching tight. “You can meet me on the battlefield like a real fucking soldier. Not slither around and sneak up on me like a grimy, dishonorable snake.”
Intense silence stretches as he stares them down, waiting for the Trojan horses to reveal themselves.
No one moves.
No one dares.
He continues, “Pass the message on—to the off-duty Uppermen, the Soldati, the Mid Troopers, the Footers, and even the goddamn Tyros: I’m awake. And I. Am. Hunting.” His voice drops, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been working against me? Then run while you still can. Or be prepared to fucking dance when the music catches you.”
With that, he returns to the cart.
And I don’t wait. I slam the pedal and speed off.
~
A FULL MINUTE passes after I park outside Stefano’s house, waiting for him to step out of the cart.
But he doesn’t move. He remains comfortably seated, typing away on his phone.
Gio swings up beside us, checks his watch, then hops out.
Stefano still doesn’t move.
Gio circles around to my side of the cart and pats the roof, pulling my attention. “I’ve got a few things to wrap up, then I’m heading down to the tennis court. Wanna swing with me?”
“Hells yeah,” I say. “I need to blow off some steam kicking your ass.”
“Great.” He grins and pinches my chin. “Meet you there in thirty.”
As he heads off toward the house, I clear my throat and drum my fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for Stefano to finally get out.
He doesn’t. Just sits there, absorbed in whatever he’s doing on his phone.
If what happened at Brioso Hubb taught me anything, it’s that he’s a cunning mindfuck. There’re more wiles behind that brutally handsome face than he lets on.
If I tell him to get out, he’ll probably remind me that he owns everything here and can sit wherever the hell he wants. So, with a resigned sigh, I hop out instead and climb into Gio’s vacated cart.
Just as I’m about to reverse, his voice cuts through the quiet. “You seem agitated, little liar. Something you would like to get off your chest?”
He can’t even be bothered to look at me, attention still on his phone.
Set on ignoring him, I start to reverse. But then brake—because, let’s face it, holding my tongue is not my forte.
“What if that stunt you pulled back there backfired, huh? What if some eager-to-impress puppet actually stepped up and planted a bullet in your head?”
A light scoff leaves him. “I believe it was Dorothy Parker who wrote, ‘Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it and it darts away.’” One corner of his mouth curves slightly. “I don’t believe in love, but that quote is my philosophy on life.” He finally looks up, pocketing his phone. “The more you’re prepared to die, the longer you live.”
“Or, you’re just an overconfident, cocksure, narcissistic nutjob.”
Eyes glinting, he tilts his head. “Aw. Were you worried about me? Or just worried about your fate without my protection?”
“Arrogance always comes before a fall,” I tell him. “You’re being way too blasé about all this.”
He tsks, shaking his head. “There you go again. Trying to tell me how to handle my business.”
“Don’t mistake my youth for ignorance,” I counter. “I grew up in organized chaos. And in my short lifetime, I’ve seen the mighty fall time and time again. When the king topples, the entire castle crumbles.” I hold his gaze. “So, king of Vegas, when your ego starts to outgrow your crown, think about all the subjects in your palace who will get buried under the debris of your inevitable collapse.”
I hit the pedal to reverse, but he’s lightning fast.
In an instant, he’s at the driver’s side, forcing me to brake with a sharp halt. Before I can react, he leans in and flips the key to shut it off.
And then his fingers are around my throat, yanking me out of the cart. He slams me up against it and leans in, his face mere inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin.
Low and lethal, he bites, “What did I say about talking to me like that?” His grip tightens. “You should be kneeling at my feet, you fucking worm.”
Something wicked unfurls inside me, liking this way too much. I laugh around his chokehold. “You don’t impress me enough for me to kneel.”
“Why the hell would I want to impress you?” he grits out. “You’re nothing. No one. Just an annoying little thumbtack stuck to the bottom of my shoe.”
Drop your gaze in submission, Raya. Shut up. Don’t push him.
Unfortunately, my mouth has a death wish.
“And yet…” I smile, slow and taunting. “Look at you. My indifference infuriates you so badly you want to kill me right now.” A soft, knowing laugh slips past my lips. “Why do the useless words of a nobody bother you so much, my reckless king?”
Why are you provoking him? Stop.
But it’s too late.
A tempest rages in his eyes, dark and violent. His nostrils flare, jaw clenched.
His vicious glare drops to my lips. Lingers…
With a deep grunt, he releases me. “Thank my brother when you see him. He’s the only reason you’re still alive right now.”
Backing up from me, he warns, “Tread carefully, little liar. Your luck won’t last.”
As he turns to leave, I call after him, “Dorothy Parker wrote other words too, you know.”
He pauses. Glances over his shoulder to me. “What?”
I rub my throat where his fingers had been, letting the words settle before I quote them. “‘If wild my breast and sore my pride, I bask in dreams of suicide. If cool my heart and high my head, I think, ‘How lucky are the dead.’”
Slowly, he turns, brows furrowed, and stares at me like I’m an equation he can’t quite solve.
“I think that’s also your philosophy on life,” I say. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown…and all that.”
I don’t give him a chance to come at me again. Jumping back into the cart, I wiggle my fingers in a small wave, then peel off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Raya
SWEAT SESSIONS WITH GIO are always a doozy. He’s cheeky, sneaky, flirty, and spends half the time staring at my breasts.
But working up a sweat on the tennis court is exactly what I needed after today’s chaos. I shove every ounce of frustration into my swings, let every grunt carry away my irritation toward Stefano.
By the time Gio and I part ways outside The Pink House, I’m in a much better headspace. Calmer, but exhausted.
I’m halfway up the stairs when Louisa spots me. She rushes up to me, breathless, and launches straight into gossip about what went down outside Brioso Hubb.
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly wagging lips can twist facts into fiction. Details mutate with every retelling until there’s nary a sliver of truth left.
But I can’t be bothered to correct Louisa that Stefano did not cut out Ricky Garro’s tongue and carve “traitor” on his forehead. Or that Luca did not challenge Stefano for his position and forced him to back down.
Why let the truth ruin a good tale?
Suffice it to say, the vibe at the villa has been eerily quiet. Tense. As if everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for something big to happen.
Louisa blathers on the entire way to my room, filling me in on things that didn’t happen. Even when I hop into the shower—a clear hint for her to leave—she merely plops onto the toilet and keeps yapping.
At some point, she shifts gears, talking dreamily about one of the Uppermen she’s been hooking up with, all smitten and starry-eyed. And I wonder if Tazi gave her the same “the men here are communal” talk she gave me.
Eventually, I decide to make use of her presence and ask her to refresh my braids. And it turns out she’s gosh darn good at it. She effortlessly styles my hair with the coolest side braids, all while gabbing nonstop.
As soon as she’s done, as if on cue, the intercom chimes with its routine alert for the ladies on shift to be downstairs for the shuttle in thirty minutes.
With a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, Louisa hurries out.
And finally…
Blessed silence.
Desperate for even a few minutes of oblivion—seeing as I’ve been awake since 3:00 AM—I dive onto the bed, arms wide.
I’m on the verge of dozing off when my phone rings.
Groaning into my pillow, I blindly reach for it from the nightstand and answer with a drowsy, “Hmm?”
Gio’s voice is on the other end. “You’re invited to dinner at the house.”
“Pass. I need sleep more than I need food right now.”
“Cora won’t take no for an answer. Come over.”
Cheese on a cracker. How do these people keep going like Energizer bunnies? No concept of time whatsoever. And sleep— what’s that?
“Fine,” I huff. “By the way, have you heard from Lorenzo? Is he alive?”
“Yeah, he just got in.” There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You’re making me want to go out and start wars so you’ll be worried about me, too.”
“No…no, you’re perfect. Stay that way.”
He laughs, like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “See you soon, pretty eyes.”
~
CORA’S DINNER IS pure, authentic Italian cuisine.
Homely, comforting, and so, so delicious.
Gio watches me like he’s genuinely concerned for me as I scarf down my food like I haven’t eaten in ages. While Cora looks on with a satisfied grin.
“Worried about her esophagus?” Lorenzo asks him with a laugh.
Gio just nods, as though words fail him.
“I had the same concern the first time I saw her demolish a plate of food,” Lorenzo tells him. “She’s like a living Pac-Man.”
Unapologetic, I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a foodie.”
As I take a sip of strawberry lemonade, I give Cora a thumbs-up. “You’re an amazing cook, Cora.”
Gio finally cracks a smile, eyes twinkling. “I’d ask where it all goes, but…”
His gaze drops pointedly to my chest.
Lorenzo catches it and immediately smacks him upside the head.
Stifling a laugh, I say, “How did I not know you have evening dinners like this? Like a normal family.”
“Not every evening,” Gio corrects. “Only Mondays.”
“Why Monday?”
“Because it’s usually the least eventful day of the week for us.” His smile is small but genuine. “Gives us a chance to sit and enjoy a meal together. As a family.”
Except one person is absent. Supposedly because he had urgent business to take care of.
“In that case, I feel like I’m intruding,” I say. “You all just met me, what, six weeks ago?”
“You’re right,” Lorenzo agrees easily. “Being at this table with us is a big deal. A sign of trust.” He takes a slow sip of his wine. “It also means that if you betray us after we’ve invited you to our table….” His tone is casual, but the warning is unmistakable. “The consequences will be…fatal.”
I set my fork down. “I still don’t understand why you trust me, though.” My gaze flicks between them. “I can’t imagine you got this far in building an empire by letting people in so easily. A little paranoia and distrust go a long way.”
Lorenzo swirls his wine. “Trusting my gut has never failed me. He tilts his glass toward me. “And my gut likes you. That’s enough for me.”
“Foolhardy,” I mutter under my breath.
“Why do you seem irritated by this?” Gio asks, bemused. “Do you want us not to trust you?”
“Yes!” I snap, exasperated. “You should have your guards up. You should be protective of your inner sanctum. Especially with everything going on right now. I shouldn’t be sitting here, at your table, in your house. What is wrong with you?”
Lorenzo and Gio exchange a look.
“You hear how strong her strange-ass accent just got?” Lorenzo asks him.
“Yeah,” Gio replies with a nod. “You think that means she’s pissed in all her languages?”
“You’re idiots.”
They laugh, shaking their heads like I’m adorable.
“We trust you,” Lorenzo solidifies. “What are you gonna do about it? Betray us to teach us a lesson?”
Stefano has the right attitude. He doesn’t trust a bone in my body. And he shouldn’t.
Guess that’s why he’s the boss.
A mischievous thought creeps in, one that might just wipe the smugness off their faces.
“So, tell me,” I start, leaning in. “How did Stefano become ‘the boss’ of you? What makes his word the final word? Did he force you into submission? Make you bend the knee?”
They’re silent. A beat too long. Like I’ve hit a nerve.
And I bask in it, pleased with myself.
Gio and Lorenzo trade glances again. Then, almost in sync, both flick their gazes back to me, faint smiles on their lips.
Like they know exactly what I’m up to.
But I don’t surrender.
“Our nonna suggested it. And it became law,” Lorenzo finally says. “That’s the short of it.”
“And the long of the short?”
Lorenzo leans back. “Nonna was a gangster. In her heyday, she was dubbed ‘La Donna’—though she was never mafia. Self-made. Built her own illegitimate empire from the ground up. A brilliant and ruthless businesswoman. Respected and feared.”
He lets that settle before continuing. “She had two sons by two different men. Neither wanted anything to do with her business, crime-shy, so she cut them off. One of them went on to become a famous poker player. The other—our papa—he just did his own thing.”
He twirls his wine glass between his fingers. “Later, Nonna set her sights on us. We hated her at first. Shied away from her, because she was too intense. Brutally harsh, rigidly strict, terrifying. And we just wanted to be boys. But Papa—who, by then, had perfected the art of failing at every business venture—urged us to be obedient to her. To earn into her good graces and learn all we could from her.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “We didn’t understand why at the time. The woman was so damn cold and stern. No warmth or patience. But we listened to Papa, behaved and let her sink her claws into us.” He chuckles again as he stares unseeingly into his wine glass. “Oh, man, that crazy fucking woman. Nonna owned us. Bossed us around. Made us watch CNBC for hours. Had us pick fights with other kids. Had us commit petty crimes. Made us compete on who could lie and bluff the best. Made us play all kinds of strange ‘games’ with rules she created, then randomly changed those rules, just to see how we’d react.’
Gio chuckles, too. “Yeah. Nonna was batshit.”
Lorenzo continues, “In time, both her sons died before her—heart attacks, two weeks apart.” His voice dips slightly, the weight of it settling. “After that, Nonna became even more involved in our lives. Stricter, impatient, aggressive. Everything with her felt urgent. She was always yelling at us, ‘you have too much to learn, and I do not have the time. Learn faster!’ It’s like she needed us.”
He pauses to take a sip of wine, his gaze casted downward, as though he’s lost in the memory. “Nonna started taking us to her meetings. And we had one job—sit, be quiet, observe. Afterward, she’d grill us, demanding our individual opinions on the meeting, our assessments of everyone in the room. And we never knew if we gave the right answers or not, because she neither praised us or criticized us. It just always felt like…like we were being auditioned for something.”
Lorenzo glances at Gio, as if silently asking if he felt the same.
