Page 15 of Filthy Little Regrets
Something dangerous blooms in Mace’s irises, those secrets hidden deep inside edging closer. “Don’t lie to me.”
Before I can respond, a man dripping in menace appears at the table. “They’re ready.” The guy’s harsh Bronx accent sends a ripple of gooseflesh down my arms.
The hard look on his face and the deadness inside his nearly black irises tell me he’s not an average man.Everyone knows that Rex Technologies is in bed with the mafia.
Mace glances at the guy, then back at me. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Swallowing a sip of the champagne, I make a vague noise in response, focusing on the dance floor as he gets up and follows the man through the crowd. I watch as they go, unease swimming in my gut.
“Here we are.” The server drops off the drinks, and I eye the scotch for a second before picking it up and tossing it back. As the alcohol burns my throat, I cough, regretting the snap decision, and chase it with a sip of my wine. Anything to stifle the anxiety fluttering in my chest.
What the fuck have I done?
five
CASSIA
An hour passes, and Rose gets pulled a million different directions, leaving me at the table alone. I don’t mind, but the longer she’s away, the more I worry about what Mace said right before he disappeared down a hallway with that man. I sent Ian a text, but he hasn’t responded. I can’t stop picturing him dead in some ditch, killed by the bratva or maybe even the mafia.
My nails dig into my palms, pain counteracting the tightening of my lungs. Mace hasn’t come back, either.
Is he in trouble?
Does it have to do with what I did to help Ian?
Rose is talking to Senator Kane’s daughter. I release a heavy breath. Normally, I’d ask her what to do, but I don’t want to risk getting her into some sort of trouble when she’s already dealing with so much. Besides, I don’t even know what’s happening. I should talk to Mace first.
I pick my way through the tables of men and women dressed to the nines, eyes set on the hallway Mace wentdown.This is probably a bad idea.This is a terrible idea. The tightness in my chest begs me to leave it alone, but I can’t. Somehow, Mace knew about that wire transfer I initiated. Is he going to rat me out?
Checking to make sure no one is following me, I scan the room. My eyes connect with Remy’s, and his eyebrows press together. His loyalty is to Rose, but it’s clear the bodyguard is wondering what the hell I’m up to. I smile at him as if nothing is wrong and duck into the hallway, hoping he won’t follow me.
With a deep breath, I creep down the hall, eyeing the doors I pass like someone might jump out and grab me. The only sign of life comes from the door at the end of the hall. Muffled voices slip beneath the door. The music from the main party is so loud, it’s hard to make out any words. I edge closer, pressing my ear to the wood, barely registering the conversation within the room over the thudding of my heart and thumping bass.
“He’s a fuckin’ liar, Boss,” a guy says, voice strained. “I swear I’m not working with Morozov!”
Stomach flipping, I suck in a hard breath. Oh my god. Morozov was the name on the other account.
“The fuckin’ money doesn’t lie, Luca!” another voice booms.
“I’m loyal to the family, Vito. No. No, Vito! Come on, man, don’t do this. I’m loyal to the?—”
A soft pop sounds, followed by a sharp cry and a hard thud. My eyes widen and my heart hammers. Was that what I think it was?
“Clean it up,” the same booming voice snarls.
Movement heads toward me, and I take two quick steps back, but before I can make a run for it, the door is rippedopen and I’m face-to-face with none other than Vito Marino. My knees threaten to buckle. The head of the Marino family—whose picture I’ve only ever seen in think pieces about the evolution of the mafia and its influence over politics and billionaires—glares at me.
There’s no mistaking him. Olive skin. Rich, dark hair with streaks of gray. A hardness that only comes with doing unthinkable things, accented with the gold rings and chains. Vito stops in his tracks when he sees me and tips his head, his vitriol and irritation lancing through me.
“Who do we have here?” he asks in a thick Queens accent, the inflections sounding like a death sentence.
An invisible hand clamps around my throat. “I was looking for the bathroom,” I say quickly, preparing to take another step away, but he surges forward, wrapping his hand around my bicep hard enough to bruise. I yelp. He yanks me into the room, releasing me so quickly that I stumble in my heels. My ankles scream in protest.
“We got a live one,” Vito says.
A rich and heady copper scent hits my nostrils right before my eyes land on the man lying face down on the floor, crimson pooling around his head. A hole sits prominently on the back of his skull. Terror slices through me, my breath stuttering.
A gunshot. That’s what I heard. The guy isn’t moving. My knees weaken. There’s blood. Everywhere. He’s dead. A gasp rips out of me, but before I can scream, a hand clamps over my mouth and a hard body presses into me from behind. Heart threatening to leap out of my chest, I thrash, fighting the hold. My gaze skips over the men in the room. I vaguely recognize one of them as the guy who came to get Mace. There are seven in total. No, eight with the man at my back, and only one of me.
