Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
It all comes back to one question in the end.
Why me?
I groan and collapse back into a pile of papers. My mother was a hoarder, but she never kept anything worthwhile. There’s nothing here. Not a useful scrap. Not a speck of information.
I should’ve seen this coming. I’m frustrated with myself for going into this relationship with Stellan without getting all the facts. I should’ve been smart enough to realize he didn’t decide to marry some random diner waitress on a whim.
He chose me.
And I still don’t know why.
It seems like his family hates me, or at least they hate my father.
I think about telling Gem, but it’ll only upset her. I don’t want to drop a bomb about how we’re descended from gangsters while she’s trying to get into college.
Does that make me as bad as Stellan?
I groan to myself, head pounding, when there’s a click from the hall. I sit up straight, heart suddenly racing as adrenaline spikes in my core. That’s the door opening. I leap to my feet, looking for a weapon, but I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to defend myself with a stack of old instruction manuals for long-gone appliances.
“Kira, it’s me.”
Stellan’s voice. I let out a long breath. Not a murderer come to get revenge for something my father did years ago. Although still a murderer.
“What are you doing here?” He appears in the hall and hesitates. He looks like he wants to come closer, but doesn’t. “You smell like blood.”
He glances down at himself. “That’s not a surprise.”
I frown, looking for injuries. “Are you hurt again?”
“Not me.” He glances to the side and looks into the bedroom. “What are you doing in there?”
“Going through my mom’s old things.” I glance at the mess. “It’s not going well.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Answers.” I stare at him, and he looks straight back. I wonder if I weren’t better off not knowing. Maybe I could keep on going like this, a big black hole where my past should be. Isn’t ignorance bliss?
“Go ahead. I know you want to ask.”
My breath hitches. Do I really want to do this?
But I can’t help myself. Even if I really wanted to bite my own tongue off to keep from talking, I’d end up writing down the questions anyway. It’s a compulsion, and I can’t stop it.
“Why do they hate my father so much?”
He grunts and glances aside. For an instant, his ice-cold exterior cracks, until he quickly puts it back together. He stalks off, and I follow him to the kitchen, where he roots around in the cabinets until he finds an old bottle of whiskey I had stashed away. He pours two glasses, tosses his back, and pours himself a second. I don’t touch mine.
“Your father was one of my father’s top Capos,” he says slowly, like he’s pulling up an old, tangled rope from a long-collapsed well. He shivers and sips his second drink. “He stole something important a long time ago. Nobody knows why he did it. But that theft nearly destroyed the entire Corsetti organization.”
“What did he take?” I pick up the drink, figuring whiskey isn’t a bad idea after all. It burns and tastes terrible.
“The Black Book.” He looks down at his drink, swirling it slowly.
I wait a beat. “Okay, and now this is the part where you tell me what that is, because I have no idea.”
“It’s a book that contains the family’s most valuable secrets. Lists of politicians on the take. Blackmail materials. Murders, gun caches, and drug deals. The Black Book is the heart of our power.”
I feel cold all of a sudden. “You use it against people, don’t you?”
“It’s how we keep control of the city. A rogue police chief cracking down on our operations? A few whispered words and casual reminders are enough to bring him to heel. My family has been stewarding the Black Book for a long time.”
“And my father tried to steal it?” I can only imagine how insane he must have been. If that book is the source of the Corsetti power, he must have known that taking it would mean a death sentence. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. My father never said. Back then, it was an enormous scandal, and it would have shaken us to the foundations—except it ended as quickly as it started.”
“How?”
“My father found the book, caught your father, and killed him.”
I feel sick. The whiskey is like fire in my guts. I’m talking to the son of the man who murdered my dad. “That’s awful.”
“It was justice. At least that’s what everyone thought.” He turns away, shoulders hunched, and takes another long drink. “But my father was lying.”
I pull back in surprise as he walks into the nearly empty living room. He paces, a man too burdened to remain in one spot. I watch him warily.