“Bowen’s plan backfired,” Creed explains. “And even though the cops hired were killed, made to look like a suicide, he was probably a little paranoid about Weston finding out if the DA was to dig a little deeper.”
“Which brings us to the present,” I chime in. “Three cops have tried to kill me. And the only big case I’ve been looking into that could bring that sort of heat is Weston’s assassination.”
“So, you think my brother hired cops to kill you so he wouldn’t be implicated in our father’s death?”
“Exactly,” Tristan replies.
“And what proof do you have?” she directs this question to me.
“Well, right now, none,” I respond honestly.
“Then, what are we even talking about this for? And what exactly do you all expect me to do?”
“We want you to kill your brother,” Creed tells her, making me wince. I prefer to stay out of the details.
Serafina huffs out a laugh. “Oh, is that all? Just go kill my brother, my only remaining family, the head of an empire our father built that would crumble without someone to lead it? Or do you plan to step in and take it over?”
“You can lead it, Serafina,” I tell her. “I know there are criminal elements to Weston’s enterprise that I don’t want any details about, but why couldn’t you run things?”
“Because in case you haven’t noticed, I have tits and a vagina. Oh, and not to mention, I was adopted. Weston isn’t my biological father. There’s not a single drop of Italian blood in me either. I know because I’ve been tested. I’m half Irish and half German.”
“I don’t give a shit about the old rules,” Creed says. “Gideon, Aiden, and Saint don’t either. We would be willing to look past your bloodline and sex to put you in charge of the Bertelli family.”
“Well, good for you, but what about the hundreds of employees who worked for my father and now my brother? Your approval won’t mean shit to them. Besides, as long as Bowen is alive, I would never challenge him. Despite what you all believe, my brother loved our father and would never have hurt him. He’s been physically ill since his death.”
“A guilty conscience will have that affect,” Saint mutters, the first words he’s spoken this whole time.
“What are you even doing here, Rovina?” Serafina asks him.
“The Ferraros are my family now. My sister married Dre, and they’re expecting, so our bloodline is officially united. When someone goes after a Ferraro, I want to help. That’s the whole purpose of merging families.”
“What is he talking about?” she asks me.
“Well, twice when Kirsten was attacked, Tristan was there to keep her safe, as you probably read about in the news as well. The second time, he took two bullets, which has angered my family,” Creed answers for me.
“Your brother’s men shot the wrong guy when they came after Kirsten,” Dre tells her.
“Again, what evidence do you have that my brother hired the shooters?” she asks.
“None yet,” he answers.
“Then, until you have it, I don’t want you accusing Bowen of shit.” She pushes up to her feet and looks us all in the eye one by one. “And if anything happens to my brother, I’ll come after every single one of you. Unlike what you claim my brother did, I don’t miss when I decide to kill someone.”
With that threat, she walks to the door, yanks it open so hard it hits the wall, and leaves.
“Well, that didn’t go like I thought it would,” Tristan remarks.
“She’s not wrong,” I say, giving him a small smile. “Without hard evidence, we don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Bowen isn’t the brightest,” Creed grumbles. “There has to be something he left behind, a wire transfer or some text messages. Too bad all the attackers are dead.”
When Creed glares at me, Tristan reminds him, “Two of those were not her fault, and the one she took out was in self-defense against a goddamn cop. One is on me for dropping him on his head, and the other, well, as much as it pains me to say it, Detective Shithead was doing what he thought was right, protecting the public from drive-by shooters before anyone else could get hurt. He’s one hell of a shot to hit both in the head.”
At first, Tristan thought Bryan could’ve been involved, but after talking to him, he came to realize what I already knew — that he’s a pussy. And he wouldn’t try to kill me. We even gave him a tip about the gelato shop, and when Tristan and I drove by the other day, Bryan was inside, leaning on the counter talking to Emanuele like they were hitting it off.
“I’ll handle it,” Saint says, causing everyone to turn to him. “I’ll find the proof we need that it was Bowen who killed Weston and talk to Serafina. If she still won’t do what needs to be done, then I’ll do it.”
Is he crazy? Tristan looks at me and nods as if thinking the same thing. If Saint kills Bowen, then Serafina will make good on her promise. This is basically a suicide mission.
