I didn't wait. I pulled the trigger. He dropped, eyes wide and terrified.
"He didn't know more," I said coldly. "Grab everything you can. Burn this place when you leave. Pull out."
We left with the ledgers and whatever we could carry, then set the casino alight behind us.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elena
My phone rang at eight. It was Marco.
"Elena, my grandma's hurt," he said, frantic. "She suddenly collapsed at home. Can you come? She kept calling your name. She needs you."
My chest tightened. Marco's grandmother had been fragile for two years. Whenever she was sick, I went to help.
"I'll be right there," I said, throwing off the covers. "Give me twenty minutes."
I packed quickly, told the babysitter to watch Stella, and ran out the door.
I took a cab to Marco's apartment, my head full of worst-case scenarios. She'd been in the hospital last month—the doctors said her heart was failing. I didn't want to imagine what could happen.
I knocked on the door, hard. Marco opened it. He was in a wrinkled shirt, collar open, stubble shadowing his jaw. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. He looked wrecked, like he hadn't slept in days.
"Marco? Where's grandma?" I stepped inside and scanned theroom. The curtains were drawn, the place dim, the air heavy with alcohol. My stomach dropped.
"She's not here," he said flatly, then shut the door and leaned his back against it.
I stared. "What do you mean? You said she collapsed."
"I lied." His mouth curved into a smile that chilled me.
There was something rotten in his gaze I'd never seen before—not worry, not sorrow. It was hot and hungry, crawling under my skin.
Fear poured over me like ice water. I stepped back and reached for my phone in my bag.
"Marco, if this is a joke, it isn't funny."
"This isn't a joke." He came toward me slowly, each step making me want to run. "Elena, we need to talk. For real."
"We can talk another time." I kept backing up until my back hit the wall. "Stella's home. I need to—"
"For five years," he cut me off, and his voice spiked. "Five fucking years, Elena! I took care of you. I stayed with you. I did everything for you!"
"I know, Marco. I've always been grateful." My hands trembled.
"Grateful?" He shouted. The man I knew as gentle and safe vanished. "I don't want your gratitude! I want your love!"
He lunged and grabbed my wrist.
"Ah!" I yelped. His grip was like a clamp; I felt bone under his fingers.
"Marco, you're hurting me! Let go!" I shoved with my free hand, but he didn't budge.
"For five years I've been gentle with you, treated you like a treasure." He leaned in; his breath reeked of liquor. "And you? You look at me like I'm a friend. Like a brother. Then that Russian bastard—the one who left you—shows up and you rush to him."
"Let go!" I kicked and screamed. "Marco, you're drunk. You don't know what you're doing."
"I'm wide awake!" he snarled, eyes wild. "I've never been more awake! Isn't this what you like? All these years, I was kind, and yousneered. That night when that Russian forced himself on you, you loved it. You screamed and shook under him, your face so filthy."
