Ruin Me With Lies, page 11
Gio nods, taking a slow sip of his wine.
“About a month before she passed,” Lorenzo continues, “she sat us down and gave her assessment of us. She told Stefano he had a silver tongue and a natural gift of changing faces, charming people into doing exactly what he wanted. That with his effortless abilities, he would excel in forging, curating, and maintaining important relationships.” His lips curve slightly. “But most importantly…he would dominate as a leader.”
Gio chimes in, “She told me I was good at being inconspicuous—but also an equalizer in chaos.” He tilts his glass, watching the wine swirl. “Said my traits would make me the perfect ‘anchor’ in any organization. That I’d always be overlooked and underestimated. But in that silence, in that disregard…” A knowing smirk plays at his lips. “I’d see things others wouldn’t…and always be steps ahead as a result.”
“As for me,” Lorenzo picks up, “she told me I was smart, but lacked patience and tolerance. That too much power and responsibility would be my downfall.” He smiles to himself, seemingly lost in the memory. “I think her exact words were, ‘Your shoulders aren’t strong enough, Lolo. You’re a hotheaded rebel who needs guidelines, instructions, and structure. Left to your own devices, the world would burn to ashes. You can be trusted to manage, but not lead.’”
Gio laughs, heartily. “Lo’s the only one who got regular finger-waggings from her. She trusted him the least and kept him on a tight leash.”
“‘Stay where I can see you, boy!’” Lorenzo mimics, laughing.
“Through all the tests, the games, the grilling…” I muse, “she was assessing your strengths and weaknesses.”
They both nod.
“Then she cautioned us,” Gio says, “to never challenge each other. To trust in each other’s strengths and capabilities. To build together. That we’d be a powerful, unbreakable triple-braided cord.” He pauses, his voice lowering thoughtfully as he recalls her words, “‘No man stands alone, boys. You will need each other. Only jealousy and loss of trust will unravel you.’”
“Wisdom is power,” I say. “You were lucky to have her.”
Lorenzo nods. “She passed a month later. And only then did everything start to make sense. Why Papa pushed us to get in her good graces. Why she gave us that final ‘character assessment.’” A smile stretches his lips. “Nonna was loaded. Over a billion in real estate. Three hundred mil in the bank. And over a hundred mil in illegal funds, hidden in an underground bunker.”
“Damn, Nonna,” I mutter.
“And guess what?”
“What?” I ask eagerly, even though I already know.
“She left all of it to Stefano.”
“Ouch,” I say with a wince. “Nonna did you dirty.”
They laugh.
“It was her way of driving home her point,” Gio says. “Of who she had confidence in to lead. Who she trusted to keep us together.”
I take a sip of my drink. “And I bet the narcissistic king just loved that, huh?”
They exchange glances, before tucking away knowing smiles.
“We stuck together, the three of us,” Gio picks up. “Built our own team. Then one random day two years later, Stefano called us in with the family lawyer. Papers drawn up. His inheritance split equally among the three of us.”
“Seriously?”
Gio nods. “Said he only waited as long as he did to see if either of us would hold a grudge. If there’d be resentment. To see if our bond was stronger than the greed of money.” His fingers drum lightly against his glass. “Along with that, a choice—take our cut and go off to do our own thing, or keep building together as a unit. We chose the latter, but demanded to be on equal footing, no hierarchy.” He shakes his head and chuckles heavily. “Big mistake. Big.”
A deep laugh rumbles from Lorenzo. “What a disaster that turned out to be.” His shoulders shake as he takes a moment to laugh at his past decision. “Didn’t take long for us to realize Nonna had been spot on with her assessment of us. Fact is, I hate people way too much to give a shit about being the boss of them.”
“And I’m too selfish with my time,” Gio adds, chuckling. “Having free time to chase pleasure and thrills was more exciting to me than keeping others in line.”
“I can see that,” I comment with a smile.
“Stefano thrived in everything he did,” Gio continues. “Enforcing rules. Curating partnerships. Finding lucrative opportunities. Closing deals. Manipulating people. Bringing them to heel. And while he was doing all that, we just kept getting in the way and creating messes for him to clean up.”
His smile is rueful. “Once we switched things back to the way they were, with him at the helm? Smooth sailing. In no time at all, he owned the city.”
Gio lifts his glass slightly, as if in salute.
“There can only be one king in the castle,” Lorenzo says. “Stefano Castello is boss. It’s in his veins. He doesn’t know how to be anything else.” He raises his glass. “The king of fucking Vegas, baby.”
This gives me more insight into their dynamics. And I can’t help but admire the trust they have in each other. The respect.
I already knew their story. At least in a clinical, words-on-paper sense. But hearing it directly from the source? Watching the emotions play out—the quiet smiles, the laughs, the way their eyes glaze over in remembrance—that’s worlds different.
This gives it body. Makes it tangible. Make them more…human.
And on the heel of that thought…
The realization of what they just did hits me. “You sneaky sons of bitches.”
They flipped my own move on me. Turned my little ego attack into an opportunity to pull me deeper into their trust circle. By sharing personal family history. Details I’m certain no one else knows.
Gio’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, while Lorenzo hides his smirk behind his wine glass.
“You’re going to be sorry for this,” I threaten, jabbing my fork in their direction. “I’m going to stab you in the back. So, so hard. You won’t even see it coming.”
“Oooh, I’m scared,” Lorenzo deadpans.
“Got your inhaler on you?” Gio asks, all cheek. “You should probably take a pump. Don’t want you having an attack from how worked up you’re getting right now.”
Ugh. They’re such shits. “Oh, piss off.”
Cora shakes her head, muttering something about us being juvenile as she gets up to clear the table for dessert.
“Okay,” I begin, “if the Castellos empire is basically an illegitimate organization founded and funded by legitimate capital, what makes guys like Ricky Garro think they can just boot Stefano and replace him with someone else?”
“Ignorance and stupidity,” Gio answers easily. “Only a handful of people know what we just told you. We’ve always let rumors run wild because it works in our favor. At the end of the day, our empire is still organized crime. The wilder the rumors, the easier it is to keep people in line.”
His shoulder rises and falls in a shrug. “But the fact is, we’re not the mafia. There’s no ‘taking out’ and ‘taking over.’ Our foundation is both legitimate and in name. If someone wanted to take what we’ve built, they’d have to legally force us to sign it over.” His grin is wicked, sharp. “And even then, they’d fail. Because we have contingency plans in place for every scenario.” He taps his temple and winks. “I should know. I’m our dirty lawyer.”
Yup. Gio Bellanti is both the lawyer and the accountant of the organization. Such a brilliant decision to have one of the trusted trio be in charge of the two most integral parts of the business, instead of risking an outsider.
The other sensitive parts of their organization are handled by Red Cage. A private investigation, high-level security, and commando company that’s owned and operated by their blood relatives—the Garzas.
There are criminals, and then there are smart criminals. And the Castellos are a lot more than meets the eye.
Lorenzo tips his wine glass at me, a knowing glint in his eyes. “We learned from the best. Our cold-blooded Nonna. We got this.”
Cora brings out dessert.
My mouth waters at the sight of the scrumptious apple strudel she serves me, and I waste no time diving in, moaning when the sweet and tangy flavors burst on my tongue.
Only to pause, mid-chew, when a familiar voice fills the room.
“Why am I not surprised she’s here?”
I resume eating, resisting the urge to look in that direction.
“Oh, Stefano, you’re here!” Cora says happily, ever incapable of hiding how much she favors him. “Lovely of you to join us.”
“Of course.” His footsteps advance, slow and measured. “It’s family night, after all.”
I ignore the jab, determined to enjoy my delicious dessert.
But as he passes behind me, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Why does he carry so much energy? A presence so thick, it feels like static in the air.
Scrrreeech.
The empty chair next to mine drags against the marble floors, and a tiny breath catches in my throat as he settles into it.
Why?
Why right beside me?
A ten-seater table. Two empty chairs at either end. Yet he chose this seat. Shrouding me in his dark, staticky heat.
“I’ll fix you a plate,” Cora offers, getting up.
“No need.” He waves her off. “Just a finger of whiskey. And a fork.”
As Cora leaves, he asks Lorenzo, “Will I have to move back to the Summerlin house…to avoid running into random strays here?”
“Lovely table manners, as always, brother,” Lorenzo chides.
Then, with a small shake of his head, he silently warns me to let it go.
Gio, ever the peacemaker, steers the conversation elsewhere.
“Was the issue handled?” he asks Stefano.
With that, the focus shifts and business talk takes over.
When Cora returns with Stefano’s whiskey and fork, he reaches over, forks up a morsel of my apple strudel, and shovels it into his mouth. All without missing a beat in their conversation.
Only then do I turn and stare at his side profile. For a full minute. Because…why?
When he again reaches over and steals another bite, I finally speak.
“Do you really need to eat from my plate?” I ask, watching him lick crumbs from his lips. “I’m sure Cora made enough for—”
“Shh,” he shushes me. Doesn’t even look my way. “The adults are speaking.”
With narrowed eyes, I look across the table at Lorenzo. “Will you shoot me if I stab him with my fork?” I hold up the utensil. “Because this would look really good sticking out of his eye right now.”
Lorenzo just blinks at me, as if the question doesn’t compute. Blinks again, then resume their conversation.
They’re discussing important matters. Something about Liquid Blue and Skullaz MC…
But I can’t focus.
Not when Stefano’s arm keeps brushing against mine each time he leans over to steal from my plate. Not when his scent has wrapped itself entirely around me, thick and distracting.
It’s sensory overload.
Because he’s…him.
And he’s so damn close.
Unable to withstand it anymore, I mutter that I’m full and excuse myself from the table.
Feeling addle-brain and worn, I pause in the hallway.
The front door feels so far away. The Pink House even farther.
So, I turn left into the living room instead, throw myself down on the big fluffy couch, and close my eyes.
Just for a little bit…
CHAPTER TWELVE
Raya
A FEATHER-LIGHT TOUCH skims along my foot, rousing me from sleep.
Against my will, my eyes flutter open, and…I hold my breath.
Shit. I must have dozed off after dinner, meaning to rest for just a moment. How long have I been out for?
That’s not why I’m holding my breath, though.
Not only is Stefano Castello sitting on the same couch I’m curled up on, but my feet are on his lap.
How…when…why?
He’s reading, fully absorbed in a small leather-bound book, his free hand resting on my feet. His thumb sweeping slow, absent strokes, back and forth, along the arch of my foot. Sending a quiet thrill through me.
What’s happening right now?
Outside the windows, the deep blue sky is fading toward dawn. Damn, I’ve been asleep here all night? Why didn’t anyone wake me?
While Stefano is lost in his book, oblivious to my wakefulness, I take the chance to surreptitiously admire him. In all his brutal perfection.
His suit jacket’s gone, but he’s otherwise fully dressed, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows. Given the hour, he likely just got in from his nightly lording at Black Gold.
He’s infuriatingly divine.
Handsome to a fault.
My heart is so unreasonable when it comes to him. So reckless. Its obsession with him is senseless and confounding. No rhythm, rhyme, or reason.
I’ve been with men more beautiful. I’ve bossed men more powerful. Stefano Castello is no more ruthless, formidable, magnificent, or impressive than the legions of avaricious demons I’ve encountered in my short life.
So, why him?
What makes my heart latch on to him?
I loathe it. Resent it. Resent him.
Once I’ve had my fill of him, I close my eyes and emit a soft moan, shifting as if I’m just waking. His thumb stills against my skin, then disappears entirely.
Feigning a sleepy yawn, I flutter my eyes open and begin to stretch, then pause, blinking at him in mock surprise.
“Am I dreaming?” I croak. “Or am I dead?”
His unreadable gaze meets mine, belying nothing. “This is my favorite reading spot. Everyone in this house knows that. But you wouldn’t. Because you don’t live here, do you?” He flicks his attention back to the pages of his book. “And I won’t forgo my morning reading just because you’ve decided to take up space here like the annoying pest that you are.”
Dramatic as always. All he’s missing is a billowing black cape.
“You could have just woken me up,” I say.
“Oh, but you snore so beautifully.”
What a lying liar! “I do not.”
“Such mellifluous white noise.” He taps my foot. “Go back to sleep. It was helping me focus.”
“No, I’ll just head back to the house. I’ve outstayed my welcome,” I say. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep in your space. I was just tired and needed a moment...”
A full minute passes, but I still don’t move, and he doesn’t shove me off the couch. His hand settles on my feet again. Stays there. His focus never leaving the pages of his book.
After another long minute of silence, I ask, “What are you reading?”
Several beats pass before he replies, “‘To every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds. For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods.’”
“Horatius,” I say.
His gaze shifts from the pages to me, one brow arching slightly.
“I know a lot of random shit,” I explain with a failed shrug.
His attention returns to his book. “Don’t blaspheme the classics.”
“My apologies.” I wiggle my toes in his lap. “Did you hold up your end of the bargain?”
A low, disgruntled noise rumbles from his throat. “Yes. Your bartender will be on the first flight out to Santo Domingo, with her soul still intact.”
“Good. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Castello.”
There’s the slightest, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. “Cute that you think that was business.”
“I take pleasure in being delusional sometimes. Leave me be.”
He drums his fingers against my toes. “Go back to sleep, little liar.”
“Only if you tell me a bedtime story.” I’m deliberately testing his patience now. “Or sing me a lullaby.”
His snort is light, that ghost of a smile still lingering. He tilts his head back, eyes drifting to the ceiling for a moment, before shifting back to me. Fire and mischief flickering in their depths. “A little lost lamb wandered into the land of lions. Its eyes green with guile, its lips red with lies. Mask firmly fixed, the entire kingdom it tricked. Before the lions knew, the cunning lamb grew, and its true nature slipped through. But one lion waited, in darkness and bright, for when faux wool falls, and morning bows to night. Strike as it might, only one will win the fight. And the wily wolf will return, into the earth as a worm.”
No chance he just made that up. Does he have a hate book where he scribbles venomous little poems about me?
I yawn. “Don’t quit your day job as a criminal. You’re a terrible poet.”
“That was your lullaby.” He pinches my calf like I’m a misbehaving child. “Now close your eyes and go back to sleep, or get up and get the hell out.”
Miserable prick.
Flipping over toward the back of the couch, I close my eyes. But sleep is impossible. I’m too wired with the restless weight of feelings I can’t even name. Too aware of his presence, his warmth, his hand still resting on my feet like he’s forgotten it’s there.
Quiet settles around us, thick and safe. I sink into it—the nearness, the tangible reality of this moment, the comfort.
I don’t want the sun to rise. Don’t want to move.
I just want to stay here, in the false safety of this stolen moment, with my rightfully paranoid king.
~
WHEN I OPEN my eyes again, I’m alone. Sunlight floods the room, chasing away the quiet cocoon of the night.
Looks like I did fall back asleep after all.
From the kitchen, the sounds of clinking dishes and the sweet aroma of frying bacon tells me Cora is already up and about.
Feeling well-rested and refreshed, I peel up from the couch, stretch my arms above my head, and shuffle toward the kitchen.
“Good morning, dear,” Cora greets, all bright and chipper. “Slept well?”
