Ruin Me With Lies, page 6
Stefano: Sleep well, rule breaker.
Me: Should I? Or should I try to escape?
Stefano: Consider me a sated cat for now. I’ll hunt when I’m hungry. [attached: 019824_img.jpg]
I tap the attached image.
A dish of half-eaten blueberry bread pudding, a full shot glass of vodka untouched beside it.
Wait. He’s having my ‘last supper,’ too?
Why is my twisted brain wanting to recognize this as…a date?
If the patio set in the background is any indication, he’s also on a balcony somewhere.
I glance out into the darkness, but the view from this side of the house offers nothing but the rear grounds and the wilderness beyond.
Me: I’ll sleep well then. I appreciate the mercy.
And when I finally climb into bed an hour later, a delusional grin on my face…
I do sleep well.
Really well.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Raya
TWO WEEKS LATER
IT’S SUNDAY AFTERNOON AND Lorenzo has me planted in his game room, reviewing surveillance.
Clearly, he doesn’t believe in rest days.
He’s a man on a mission, determined to ferret out the disloyal turncoats.
But for the past hour, his focus has shifted, hijacked by the secret surveillance feed on his phone. The one he doesn’t know I know about.
By now, I’ve figured out that whenever he pulls up that feed, it does one of two things—puts him in a freakishly good mood, or drop-kicks his temper straight into the gutter.
Lorenzo Castello’s daily mood ranges between don’t give a fuck and fuck you, die. Anything else outside that range is influenced by whatever he sees on that secret feed. It controls him somehow. Fuels both his contentment and his rage.
Cora comes in and sets a serving tray in front of me, laden with grilled chicken sandwich, a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade, and a side of sliced mangoes.
“Thanks so much, Cora. You’re the best.”
She warmly cups my cheek before turning to leave.
Lorenzo stops her. “Why do the snacks and drinks only come out when Raya’s here? You never bring me shit.”
Cora tilts her head toward the ceiling, as if summoning patience from the almighty. “Would you like a grilled sandwich, Lorenzo? Something to drink?”
“Nah. I’m not—”
“That’s why.” She jabs a finger at his shoulder. “You’re picky. Never ‘in the mood’ for anything. Never touch what I put in front of you unless it’s cigars and whiskey. You eat so infrequently, I’m baffled by all those muscles.”
I take a big bite of my sandwich and give Cora a thumbs-up.
She beams, pleased.
From what I know, Cora Ricci is their first cousin once removed. Though they simply call her “aunt.” She lost both her sons in a drug war back in Italy. Grief and severe depression took over when her husband died months later. After a suicide attempt, Stefano went to Italy himself to bring her here and got her the help she needed.
But after observing her these past few weeks, it’s become clear she tries to fill the void by mothering Lorenzo, Gio, and Stefano, using them as stand-ins for the men she lost. While steadfastly refusing to speak a lick of English.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that appreciation is her love language. She thrives on praise, on being needed, on having her efforts recognized.
Too bad Lorenzo is about as warm and appreciative as a floating iceberg.
“Whatever,” he mutters, waving her off.
Cora clucks her tongue and walks out.
Around a mouthful of sandwich, I ask, “So, why aren’t you at Mass?”
Gio and Stefano supposedly left for it hours ago.
Distractedly, he replies, “Because I know, accept, and am comfortable with the fact that I’m beyond saving.”
Efficient. Why waste time faking it, right?
His jaw clenches as he glares at the screen.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Is she an ex?”
“Hmm?” he responds, still distracted.
“The woman you’re stalking.”
That gets his attention.
His gaze snaps from the screen to me. “You hacked my shit?”
“Nope.” I take another bite of my sandwich. “You’re getting better at tech now—thanks to moi—so you’ll understand soon enough that once you’re given even a smidge of access to something, that’s all you need to create a million pathways to…well, everything.
“Fortunately for you, I’m team Castellos. Plus surveillance bores me. But I do find your obsession with this particular person interesting. Data shows you’ve been stalking her for a long time.”
He slams his phone face-down on the desk. “Stay out of my business.”
“You make it hard to.” I gesture at the phone. “That feed dictates your mood.”
Licking a bit of sauce from the corner of my mouth, I press on, “So, tell me…what has you so irritated right now? Is it the Bugatti guy with the lush hair who slept over after their date last night?”
A low growl rumbles in his throat as he drops his head back and rubs his eyes. “Every day…every day she does this. Poke and poke and frustrate me to no end. Maybe I should just let my brother kill her and be done with it. Should I? I think I should.”
I stifle a giggle.
He’s right. I do poke and prod him when we’re working together. But on purpose. To pull him back from whatever edge he’s about to spiral off when that surveillance feed starts screwing with his mood.
Sometimes I do it just to test him. He has a low tolerance level, so the extent to which he puts up with me reveals how much he likes having me around. And judging by how much of my inquisitive prodding and unsolicited opinions he endures? Methinks Lorenzo Castello really likes having me around.
“You won’t,” I say. “You like me too much.”
“You pronounced tolerate wrong.”
Before I can fire back, something on the monitor catches my attention. Something I’ve been scanning for in the security footage playbacks from Liquid Blue, one of their nightclubs.
“Bingo.”
Lorenzo’s gaze flicks to me. “What is it?”
I hit pause and tap the screen. “This bartender at Liquid Blue, is she from The Pink House or Fair Cove?”
Lorenzo leans in to have a closer look. “No idea. I’ll have to check with Tazi. Why? You found something?”
“Yeah, I picked up on something a few days ago but needed more evidence. Scraped through tons of playback footage, compiled it all, and waited for last night’s footage.” I pop a slice of mango into my mouth. “And now I can safely say this bartender is up to something. And it’s not team Castellos.”
“Let me see,” he says.
“Hang on.”
I splice out the relevant clips from the current footage, add them to my compilation file, save the new version, and hit play.
Lorenzo watches, then shakes his head, nonplussed. “What am I supposed to be seeing? She’s out of frame in every shot.”
My sigh is dramatic. “Oh, young student. Must I teach you everything?”
Lorenzo’s scowl deepens right before he conks me on the forehead with his knuckles.
“Ow! Careful! There’s priceless treasure inside this skull.”
When he raises his knuckles to do it again, I throw up my hands in surrender then hit replay.
“Watch closely,” I say, slowing down the video. “She somehow knows exactly where the cameras’ blind-spots are. And whenever this guy comes in”—I point at a heavily tattooed man in the crowd—“she moves into that blind spot to talk to him. So, I scoured the angles of all the other cameras and found one that indirectly catches the bar, through the adjacent mirrored wall. Then I zoomed in, sharpened the quality, and…” I tap the screen. “Voilà! Now, what do you see?”
Lorenzo watches the footage again with complete focus. “Envelope pass.”
“Every Saturday. Always within the same time frame,” I say. “And, sure, it could be nothing serious. Except for the fact that it’s always done in a blind spot. Someone on the inside fed them information on the cameras.” I tap the screen. “The guy does a good job hiding his face, but check out the top of that tattoo peeking out above his collar. Isn’t that part of the symbol for Skullaz motorcycle club?”
Lorenzo frowns, leans in closer, squints, then mutters a curse. “You’re sharp as fuck. That’s the Skullaz mark alright.”
And with that, my work here is done.
Leaning back, I pick up my half-eaten sandwich and take a bite. “Over to you, boss.”
He rubs his jaw. “Our surveillance team needs an overhaul.”
“Not necessarily,” I say around a mouthful. “There’s a difference between sitting in a security room and watching a monitor of multiple feeds with multiple angles across multiple properties, versus actively searching for something. They are doing their jobs. I’m working under daily threats, harsh glares, and insufferable moodiness, so I have to be thorough.”
With my pinky, I wipe a dollop of sauce from the corner of my mouth. Cora sure knows how to make a mean sandwich. “That’s why I know you won’t let your brother kill me.”
Lorenzo scoffs. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
“Correction, I’m the shit.”
Movement on the live feed in the lower left corner of the monitor catches my eye. Stefano, Gio, and a middle-aged man in a priest’s robe make their way up the sloped pathway to the house.
Stefano has been travelling for the past two weeks and only got back last night. While he’s been away, things have been a little quiet, less tense. My days spent working with Lorenzo, and my evening spent getting sweaty exercising with Gio.
“Church is over and the heathens are out.” I stretch my arms over my head. “Time to sneak me out like your dirty little secret.”
“Not yet,” he says. “Vale’s with them. They’ll head straight out the back to play chess. Wait until they’ve settled.”
“Vale? Is that the priest?”
He grunts in confirmation.
Vale Fontana is their uncle and Luca’s father. But I’m not supposed to know that.
“Hmm.” I take a drink of lemonade. “The priest and the sinners. Interesting family.”
Lorenzo ignores me, already checking in with Tazi about the bartender.
Tazi later confirms the woman is from Fair Cove, not The Pink House.
Fair Cove is a Castello-owned apartment complex downtown that houses their expatriate employees. Unlike The Pink House girls, Fair Cove residents are just workers on permits. Paying tenants. No tight restrictions, no constant oversight.
Which makes the bartender’s actions strange. She could meet up with whoever, wherever, whenever outside of working hours. There’s no need for her to sneak around inside a Castello-owned operation.
So, why risk it?
Thirty minutes later, Lorenzo pushes back from his desk. “I’m gonna head out back and keep him distracted. Wait a few minutes, then go.”
Thank hell. I’m itching to get out of here and get in some movement before my brain fries. All this sitting around, staring at a screen, hasn’t been good for my brain or my gains.
I’m a hyper-learner. A doer. Easily bored, always adapting, always on the prowl for something new to sink my teeth into.
These last few weeks is the most stagnant I’ve ever been.
Lorenzo’s phone buzzes. He checks it. His jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. There goes his focus and his mood. Even as he leaves the room, his eyes stay glued to the screen.
For as long as he’s been stalking that oblivious woman, one would think he would’ve done something by now. But he clearly has no intention of taking her for himself. So, what does he get out of it?
After packing up my devices, I give it ten minutes before slipping out of the room.
As soon as I step into the hall, the delectable scent of vanilla, sugar, and baked dough hits, and an appreciative hum escapes me.
Cora must be baking.
As I pass the Mediterranean-style kitchen, a tray of fresh-baked goodies on the island catches my eye, stopping my lickerish ass in my tracks.
Looks yummy. But Cora isn’t around for me to beg some off her, and I need to get out of here before the man who wants to kill me sees me.
I resume my quiet escape.
Then stop.
Glance around like a crook before turning back and tiptoeing to the kitchen island. To the tray piled with assorted cookies and biscotti.
Hmm.
I rip off a sheet of paper-towel, pluck up two treats, and wrap them up. Then grab a third—an amaretti cookie—and bite into it.
“Mhmmhm, ohmyghard, so goofd,” I sing through a full mouth.
“Your offenses just keep piling up, rule breaker.”
At the sound of that voice, my body goes rigid. Momentarily.
Goddammit, Lorenzo. You had one job.
No doubt he’s off in a corner somewhere fuming at his phone screen.
Mid-chew, I slowly turn around.
Stefano Castello stands in the kitchen archway, hands in his pockets. Perfectly perfect as ever in a fitted three-piece suit. “Did no one warn you what we do to thieves around here?”
I finish chewing, swallow, and meet his gaze. “Surely, you won’t kill me over two cookies.”
“Liars lie. Thieves steal. Today it’s cookies, tomorrow it’s something else.”
“Good grief, you’re dramatic. It’s just cookies.” I close my eyes and inhale deeply. “You smell that? How could I resist?”
“So what you’re telling me is, if I put you to work handling my money, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from stealing. ‘Look at all this money, how could I resist?’”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Is he serious right now? Over some damn cookies that Cora would’ve happily given me anyway?
“Look, I’m not a thief or a liar, all right? I would’ve waited for Cora, but I wanted to get out of here before...” I gesture vaguely between us. “This could happen.”
Mercifully, Cora ambles in right then, her face lighting up at the sight of Stefano.
No question who’s her favorite.
“Oh, Stefano! Did you need something? Let me get it for you.”
“Nothing needed,” he replies, his glare still pinned on me. “Just caught your precious little Raya here helping herself to your bakes.”
Cora swivels as if she hadn’t even noticed me standing there. “You’re leaving already? I was putting together a pasticcini tray for you and Gio. He loves these treats as much as you. But they’re not done yet. If you have to go now, I’ll get them to you later.”
The indignant flare in Stefano’s eyes almost makes me laugh. Like a pissy little snot who’s mad I didn’t get scolded after tattling on me.
“Oh, Cora, that’s so sweet of you,” I say, layering on the saccharine. “Thank you for thinking of me. I was on the way out and they looked so delicious. Forgive me for dipping my hand in the cookie jar too soon.”
She waves me off. “You’re welcome to anything on my table, darling. Once everything is done, I’ll send some over for you.”
“Thanks so much, Cora.” I give her a one-armed hug. “Really appreciate it.”
Over her shoulder, I throw Stefano a smug wink.
Yup. He definitely wants to murder me. In cold blood.
“Okay, I’m off!”
As I trek out of the house, munching on stolen treats, Cora comments to Stefano, “Sweet girl. Such a sweet, sweet girl.”
Ha!
Halfway through the main area, my grin falters at the sound of firm, confident footsteps closing in behind me.
They follow me straight to the door.
Crossing over the threshold, I turn to face him. “Need something?”
His stare is a sharp blade, slicing me open. “Just making sure you don’t steal anything else.”
He’s still on this? It’s no secret he’s a vain, avaricious, materialistic bastard, but this is ridiculous.
“Well, damn.” I gesture at the ornate door knocker. “This thing was looking a little tempting.”
I bite into a fresh cookie. Yum. White chocolate and pistachio.
“Why do you insist on hating me?” I muse, licking crumb from my lip. “You heard Cora. I’m a sweet, sweet girl.”
“The only thing sweet about you is the fragrance of your lies.” He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. “I. Don’t. Trust. You.”
Oh, sweet buttery biscotti, he smells divine.
If only I could freeze time, lean in, and nuzzle against that desert-tan skin, right beneath that sharp jawline, breathe him in like a bad idea I won’t regret. Instead, all I can do is focus on not getting bowled over by the sheer headiness of him.
“Poetic. I never would’ve pegged you for the purple prose type.” I offer my half-eaten treat. “Cookie?”
I’m being facetious. A preemptive defense mechanism. Anything to stop myself from blurting something insane like, “You smell so good I want to eat your face.” So I’m half expecting him to slap it out of my hand. Maybe even snap my wrist for good measure.
Anything except what he does…
Lean in closer and eat the entire offering right from my fingers. The brush of his warm tongue against my skin sending a sharp, electrifying thrill through me.
And while I’m still standing there, soft in the knees, pulse unsteady, he backs up and slams the door in my face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Stefano
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT HER eyes.
Big, bright, striking emerald-green.
I’ve seen them before. Sure of it. Staring into them feels like standing on the edge of an icy mountain, gazing up at the aurora borealis.
For shit’s sake. I shake it off and refocus on the chessboard in front of me.
Vale waits patiently across the table, arms relaxed, confidence unwavering. Knowing he’ll remain undefeated no matter how long I stare at the board.
We’ve been playing since I was a boy, and I’ve yet to beat him. Not even once. The bastard has never even thrown me a pity win. He may be a priest, but he’s no sucker.
