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Andre

“W hat are we going to do about Bowen now?” I ask Creed a few days after the dust settles from Weston Bertelli’s funeral.

“No fucking idea,” he mutters. “He needs to die.”

“Agreed.”

“But now…”

“It’ll be too suspicious,” I finish for him as I sit across from his desk, one leg crossed over the other. “And if his death can be traced back to you, then everyone will assume it was you who killed Weston. And possibly Emilio.”

“Exactly,” Creed grumbles. Resting his elbows on his desk, he rubs his forehead and closes his eyes as if he’s got a monumental headache.

Knowing it’s dangerous ground, especially when he’s wound so tight, I still find myself asking, “You don’t actually think Tristan killed Weston, do you? I mean, it’s not like taking him out would stop a hit on the DA.”

Creed sighs and sits back in his chair. “No. It wasn’t Tristan. I’m not sure why I even went off on him. Everything went to shit so suddenly, and then Lorenzo showed me the photos from Tristan’s phone and told me about the videos. I doubt if our cousin is capable of caring for a woman as more than a body to fuck.”

“That’s my thought too. And despite all his flaws, Tristan will be loyal until his last breath.”

“I guess I owe him an apology,” Creed grits out the words as if forcing them through his teeth reluctantly.

“Wouldn’t hurt. There’s enough calamity to deal with without us going at each other’s throats in the family.”

The corner of Creed’s lips lift. “Calamity? Really?”

“Would you prefer clusterfuck?”

“Yes, I would. Calamity isn’t strong enough to convey how fucked everything is right now.”

The words barely leave his lips when there’s a pounding knock on the closed office door. It’s odd enough that Creed and I both go for our guns…that aren’t there but at the front desk. Still, only a fool would interrupt the boss.

“What?” Creed snaps as we move closer to the door.

“Sorry to bother you, boss,” the voice I recognize as the new kid, Eugene, who has been working as an errand boy, says from the other side of the door.

We both heave a sigh of relief, and Creed yanks the door open. “You never interrupt me unless someone is dead, understood?”

“I’m sorry, but I think someone is dead,” Eugene replies. “Saint Rovina is here to see you.”

“Saint?” Creed huffs while arching an eyebrow at me, but I don’t know what he wants. I don’t have my phone on me to check, since I have to leave it at the desk.

“He looks fucked up and says it’s urgent. It’s…it’s popping up on all my notifications,” the kid adds.

“Fine. Take him to the small conference room,” Creed orders the boy. “And what’s popping up on your notifications?”

“The five-car pileup in Queens that closed the road.”

“What?”

“My phone is at the front desk but three people are dead. One of the cars caught on fire and killed everyone inside. The one that’s registered to Aiden Sanna.”

“Motherfucker!” Creed roars, sending the boy running off, as he slams the door hard enough to shake the entire building.

“Fucking hell. Do you think Saint is behind Aiden’s accident?”

“Of course that coglione is behind this shit!” Creed goes to his desk and swipes everything off, reminding me of Stella doing the same to my dinner the other night.

“Well, on the bright side, at least Saint isn’t coming after us. But to go after Sanna without warning you…” I trail off as my guts twist. Why now? What possessed Saint to try to get revenge now at the worst possible time?

“We all may be in the clear, but that boy just picked a fight he can’t win,” Creed huffs while pointing toward the hallway.

“Let’s hope he was smart enough not to leave any evidence that can be traced back to him.”

“I seriously doubt it,” Creed replies. “Come on, let’s go see what your brother-in-law was fucking thinking.”

* * *

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” Saint says quietly as he sits on the floor in the conference room, his knees pulled up, head in his hands. “I thought the new Bentley was only Aiden’s vehicle. He’s been bragging about it to everyone, and he wasn’t even in the damn thing!”

Creed and I exchange a look. Maybe we should’ve checked the news on our phones before the meeting. “So, Aiden’s not one of the victims?” Creed asks as we tower over him.

“No.”

“That’s a good thing, Saint. It’ll look more like an accident if he’s not involved,” I tell him.

“It was his wife and daughter!” Saint exclaims.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter at the same time Creed also swears.

“And their driver. Fuck!” Saint adds as he swipes the sleeve of his wrinkled suit coat over his face to dry it.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Creed asks.

“I just…I needed to do something. And then Stella told me everything you said about Izaiah and the drugs…Aiden deserves to die for killing my brother and father!”

Creed arches an eyebrow at me.

Goddammit. This is my fucking fault.

“At the funeral, Bowen was talking to Stella, and she started asking me questions ,” I explain, knowing Creed will understand without me saying it in front of Saint. “I told her Sanna admitted to selling heroin to Izaiah, that he could’ve died from an overdose or a bad batch, and if Emilio found out and confronted him…”

My cousin gives me a glaring look that says I should’ve kept my mouth closed. But I had to give Stella something to take the heat off us.

Now, more lives, innocent lives, have been lost because of our lie. Because of Creed’s lie. My glare back at him conveys as much. Yes, I should’ve been more careful about what I said to Stella, but if he hadn’t killed Izaiah in cold blood for Zara, none of this would be an issue.

He takes a deep breath and looks back at Saint. “What did you do?” Creed kicks Saint’s shoe to get his attention. “Start from the beginning and tell us every fucking thing.”

“Wait.” I hold up a hand when a sudden thought sends a chill down my spine. “Stella was headed to your house this morning. Is she still there with Cami and your mother?”

“She was still there when I left,” Saint answers.

“We need to send some of our men to the house,” I tell Creed.

“My men are always on guard there,” Saint interjects. “At least four of them...”

“That’s not enough if Sanna retaliates,” I bite out. “You may have just painted a giant target on your mother and sisters’ backs!”

“Fuck!” he shouts before slamming his head back into the wall so hard it sends flakes of drywall to the floor.

“Go do it.” Creed nods.

At the front desk, I get my phone back and send the message to Lorenzo who instantly replies that he’s got six men en route to Brooklyn.

Feeling a little calmer, I return to the conference room just as Creed growls at Saint. “You have no idea the hell you’ve just caused. Get your ass up and in a chair, then tell us exactly what. You. Did.”

Saint hauls himself up to come to the table as well, pulling out a chair to slump into it.

“One of our crew is a mechanic,” he starts. “He rigged the brakes while the car was in the warehouse and punctured the oil tank, no more than a pin prick so it would leak.”

“That’s it?” I ask when he stops talking.

“That’s it.”

“You better hope and pray there’s not a shred of evidence of any of that shit left!” Creed yells at him.

“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…”

“No, you shouldn’t have!” Creed gets to his feet. Palms braced on the table, he yells into my brother-in-law’s face, “And from now on, you don’t fucking sneeze without my approval. Is that understood? You might be your father’s heir, but even he answered to me!”

“Yes, sir,” Saint mutters, sounding like an unruly teenager rather than a mob boss. God, he’s still got so much to learn. I hope he stays alive long enough to figure shit out. Stella would be devastated if anything happened to her twin.

Creed points to the door. “Now get your ass out of here. The last thing I need is for someone to spot you here and think I was involved in your idiotic assassination attempt days after the Bronx boss was killed!”

“What-what should I do?” Saint pushes his chair back and stands.

“Nothing. Do you hear me? Not a damn thing,” Creed says slowly. “You act like you would any other day of the week.”

“Go home, spend time with you sisters and mother,” I tell him. “Lay low.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear it. Save your sorrys for Aiden Sanna and his kids, who lost their mother and sister today,” Creed says. “You better play up the sympathy at the funeral, or you’ll be the first one they point a finger at.”

“I’ve got to go to their funeral?”

“Yes, you’re going to go to their goddamn funeral, you stupid little shit. Welcome to the mafia. It requires a huge set of balls and the ability to constantly lie through your teeth to everyone in your fucking life!”

As soon as the dumbass trudges out the door, Creed jerks out his chair and drops into it while rubbing his face. “This is all my fault.”

“In a way, yeah, I guess it fucking is. But it’s mine too. I’m going to keep an eye on my wife to make sure nobody tries to retaliate. You should consider doing the same.”

While I wish I could be more sympathetic, I’m still pissed at Creed for making me marry the woman of my dreams after killing her father, forcing me to lie to her beautiful face every fucking day, just like he told Saint.