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“I don’t know why Warren Winslow popped into my head.”

God fucking dammit. Fuck. I hated that name.

“Raffa’s men dragged me into the office,” she continued. “I had a flash of him. You remember him, right?”

How could I forget? “What about him?”

“He drowned in their family home. The police said he had drugs in his system.”

“Looks like an open and shut case,” I said shortly.

Bianca put the bottle down, crossed arms over the table, and leaned forward. “Now’s the time to tell me the truth, Sandro.”

We stared at each other and I let her see the truth.

She winced. “I just want to know why.”

“You want to know if I killed that fucker for taking your virginity?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a rapist.”

“I guess… The night was fuzzy.”

“Bianca.” I reached across the table, uncrossed her arms, and grabbed her hands, holding our linked fingers on the table. I was afraid she’d bolt. This was a momentous confession, and I wanted to look her in the eye when I told her.

“Did you or did you not tell him to stop?” I asked.

“It was dubious consent,” she whispered. “I was drunk. He was drunk, but in the end, what he did was wrong.”

“I will not argue the point and force you to accept that you were raped. It’s hard enough that you struggle with it. Butdo notfor one second think Warren didn’t deserve to die.”

She gave a tiny gasp at the venom in my tone. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t flinch from my hardened gaze.

“Yes, I killed him,” I stated fiercely. “Yes, I pumped him full of drugs before I threw him into the pool to drown. I wish I made him suffer more. I wish I tortured him. Since the time I picked you up with blood running down the back of your thighs, I watched him.” I rattled that off quickly. It was like a poison I’d kept inside me and I couldn’t wait to expunge it. “But he was eighteen at that time. I wanted to erase his pathetic life, but I couldn’t kill him. Yet.” Me and my fucking code. I grappled with myself. He wasn’t a child, but he was still too young.

“You put him on your hit list.”

“And he was forever on it. I waited five years. And when he graduated from getting women drunk to roofieing them, I was done waiting. The fucker needed to die.” I repeated my earlier statement. It was my mantra for five years when it came to Warren Winslow. Bianca was silent as if absorbing what I was telling her.

“I don’t regret it. You’ll just have to live with what I’ve done. Can you?”

When she was still silent, I said, “If you need proof, I have copies of police reports and video footage from my club.”

“Should you be keeping those?” she asked.

“Does that mean you’re okay with what I did?”

“I don’t know what I’m becoming,” she whispered. “I guess since Warren’s family is rich and influential, nothing came from the complaints?”

“Nothing. Nada. They were paid off or threatened.”

“Threatened?”

“Yes. The Winslows actually have a relationship with the Rossis. They approached us to intimidate their workers during labor disputes. That was how Warren came on Griselda’s radar. She was adamant she didn’t mean for you to get hurt. She thought Warren was like any entitled teenager and his arrogance and good looks would be a distraction for you.”

“You know what? I’ll just add this to my list to chew on…”