Page 85 of Perfect Vengeance

“If you aren’t sitting down, you might want to.”

Whatever Smitty was about to tell him, he doubted sitting would help. He stood and began pacing the bedroom. As if sensing his need for privacy, Gina rose and went into the bathroom.

“She still has no criminal record,” Smitty continued. “The thing is, twelve years ago, Gina Perot had her name legally changed. Her real name is Angelina Perotti. Her father was…”

Jack stopped pacing and froze. “Tony Perotti,” he whispered at the same time Smitty said the name. The bookie Franco Falzone murdered when he was caught wearing a wire—Jack’s wire.

A sick feeling welled up from the pit of his stomach. No. Oh, hell, no. He sank onto a chair. This couldn’t be happening.

On more than one occasion, he’d thought Gina looked familiar. That night at the fundraiser, even Franco Falzone had thought the same thing. Now he knew why.

I sent her father to his death.

That sick feeling began burning a hole in his gut. An image of a young girl, barely eighteen years old, came to him. Angelina Perotti, holding her mother’s hand, tears streaming down their faces as her father’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Her face had matured since then, her gangly teenage body filled out with graceful curves.

“You there?” came Smitty’s voice.

“Yeah,” he choked out, too stunned to say anything more. With the utterance of one name, his entire world was spinning completely out of control, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it. But he had responsibilities that couldn’t wait. “We have to get to JFK. I’ll pick you up outside 26 Fed in forty minutes.”

He ended the call, his mind a jumbled mess. He would have told Smitty twenty minutes, but he couldn’t just leave. Keeping a secret of this magnitude would only fester until it consumed him. What would Gina say when he told her he was the case agent who’d sent her father to his death? She’d hate him for all eternity.

As he lowered his head in his hands, it felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. His heart was seconds from cracking in two.

He’d lose Gina. And he’d only just found her.

The bathroom door opened. Gina held a glass of water and wore the same green satiny robe that draped so lovingly over every one of her curves. He soaked in her beauty like a dying man. This might be the last time she’d ever look at him without hating his guts.

Her eyes widened as she set the glass on the bureau, then rushed over to kneel in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

He swallowed as a giant lump lodged securely in his throat. The shroud of guilt that had plagued him for fifteen years tore open. He had done it right. She wouldn’t see it that way.

“For god’s sake, tell me what’s wrong.” She rested her hands on his knees and gasped. “Is it Kinsey? Did something happen to her?”

“No, it’s not about Kinsey.” Her question snapped him out of his stupor.

“Then what is it? I can tell something’s happened. Please, Jack. Tell me.”

Without looking up, he clasped her hands, interlacing their fingers. There was no sense putting off the inevitable. “Angelina Perotti,” he whispered.

The fear faded from her eyes, replaced by shock. She yanked her hands from his, and he let her go. Slowly, she rose to her feet. “How did you find out?”

“When I first met you, I ran a background check. It just took a while to come through.”

Her shoulders slumped as she nodded. “That’s part of what I didn’t want to talk about. After my mother died, I changed my name because I couldn’t get away from the stigma of being the daughter of a mob bookie. Despite what he did, I loved my father very much, and he didn’t deserve to die the way he did.”

“I know,” he said quietly, letting his words sink in. He knew the very moment when they did.

Her brows lowered, her eyes lasering into him like a double-barrel shotgun coming on target. “What do you know?”

Part of him wanted to lie or say nothing. As much as it killed him, he had to tell her. “I knew your father.”

Her nostrils flared. “How?” she asked tightly.

“He got caught up in a small sting operation. It was the first case I ran independently as an agent.” He could barely choke out the words. “I was the arresting officer.”

For a moment, her face went slack. “It was you,” she whispered. “You forced him to wear a wire. You didn’t give him a choice. It was either that or go to prison. And then you sent him to Franco Falzone.”

The breath he took next was so painful it might as well have been poison gas. “Yes.”