"I just came from your house," I say. "The guards are dead. Three of my men. Executed."
I hold up my hand, showing her the dried blood on my cuff.
"This is Mikhail’s blood. He was twenty-two. Your father isn't planning a rescue. He was taken."
"No," she shakes her head. "No, the message said—he said—he had a team."
"The Italians have him," I tell her brutally. "But they didn't take him by force, Helena. He left with them."
"Moretti?" she breathes.
Recognition flashes in her eyes.
"I saw the debt note," she whispers. "I found it in his desk. A marker for fifty grand. I knew he owed them money, but he promised me it was handled!"
"A payment plan?"
I almost laugh in her face.
My God, she’s naïve.
"That's why they took him!" she yells, grabbing my lapels. "They took him because of the debt! They’re going to hurt him if he doesn't pay!”
"Help him?" I stare at her, incredulous. "You think this is a kidnapping for ransom?"
"He’s in danger. We have to save him."
"Stop," I shout, silencing her. "He isn’t a victim. He’s a collaborator."
"He’s my father!"
"He’s a traitor!" I roar. "There was no struggle in his study. His glass was on the coaster, and my guard heard him talking to Moretti before he left. He wasn't begging for his life. He didn't sound like a victim."
I lean in, letting the venom drip into my voice.
"He called Don Moretti by his name. He said, 'I'm ready,' and he walked out the door."
"That doesn't mean he’s a traitor!" she argues, though her tone lacks conviction.
"It was easy for them to come to him," I whisper. "Because they have done business before. He’s been paying the Morettis for years. I've seen the ledgers. Hundreds of thousands of dollars flowed to them."
"That was debt," she explains, trying like hell to reason it away. "He gambled."
"It was a relationship," I snap. "He pays them. And tonight? He decided the price of his safety was worth more than my life. He walked out willingly. He traded the Founder's Key for a clean slate."
"He wouldn't," she sobs, shaking her head. "He loves me. He wouldn't trade me."
"He sold you once already at a poker table. Why is it so hard to believe he’s selling you again?"
"You're lying. You hate him."
"Yes," I hiss. "I hate him."
"Why?" she screams, tears streaming down her face. "What did he do to you? Why do you hate him so much?"
I freeze. The truth is sitting on my tongue.He killed my mother. He killed my sister.
But I swallow it down. Not yet. She isn’t ready for the ghosts.
