Page 74 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

When he disappeared that week, leaving me high and dry for the second time that month, that’s when I decided to take over.

To salvage what I could, before we lost everything.

I kept the diner open until midnight, and thought my efforts were being rewarded every time a customer walked through the door.

“When I got out of hospital and saw the diner was still open, I knew I had to do something.”

When he looks at me again, so much pain on his face, I squeeze his hand as hard as I can.

“They weren’t going to stop, Zoey. And neither would you.”

I can feel him shaking through my hand. Or maybe I’m the one shaking.

That was our biggest fight yet.

Ricky told me we had to sell the diner, to move out of the city and start somewhere fresh. He kept going on about how dangerous the neighborhood was, how all the other businesses in the street were being robbed.

I thought he was high, that his paranoid babble had something to do with the drugs I was convinced he was taking.

But I refused. Not just because we had a second mortgage and wouldn’t even get any money back from the sale, but because the diner had meant everything to Mom. I was determined to make a success of it.

Would things have been different if he’d told me the truth?

Would I even have believed him?

“I stayed in that alley every night, waiting for them to come back. When they did, I begged them to leave us alone. To stop cleaning out the safe. To let us just get on with our lives. So Elonzo offered me a deal.”

I flinch at the name, my stomach growing queasy. Knowing Elonzo, I can’t imagine what awful choices he gave Ricky.

“He didn’t want money anymore. One of us had to start working for him. And I had to choose.” Ricky’s throat moves as he swallows. “Me…or you.”

“You worked for them?” If I sound incredulous, it’s because I am. All this time, I thought Elonzo was just coming to collect a debt. But now I realize he was just checking in on one of his gangbangers.

My fucking brother.

I should be grateful he didn’t hand me over to them, but this still feels like a betrayal, especially after what they did to Mom.

“I was protecting y—” Ricky’s saying, but I cut in with a sharp, “Why did Elonzo say you owed him money? Was that just an excuse to break into the apartment to look for you?”

Ricky shoves his hands in his hair, eyes closed as he shakes his head.

“No, Sis. I did owe him money. I—I was skimming. Trying to save enough so we could both disappear. Start over somewhere they’d never find us.” He shakes his head. “But Elonzo figured it out, and so I ran, because I thought they’d come after me , not you. I thought if I disappeared, you’d be safe.”

Protecting me.

Keeping me safe.

Sounds an awful lot like another guy I know. My eyes slide over to Smith. He hasn’t said a word this entire time, standing by the window with arms crossed like he’s gone to sleep with his eyes open.

“How long?” I whisper, eyes going back to Ricky.

“What?”

“How long were you working for them?”

Ricky’s silence is answer enough.

“How long, Ricky?”

“Two years,” he chokes out.

Two years. Two years of lies. Two years of him pretending to have a gambling addiction while he worked for the same people that brutally attacked our mother.

“All those times you disappeared. All that money you stole. All the lies.” The pieces are falling into place, and I hate every single one.

“I brought in cash, too,” he snaps.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t gambling winnings, was it?”

“Some of it?—”

“Don’t.” My voice is sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t lie to me anymore. In fact, maybe just stop talking, because I’m not even sure what to believe anymore.”

Smith steps closer, his presence a solid anchor in the chaos of my thoughts. “There’s more, Zoey.”

I turn my fury on him. “I’m kinda full up on bullshit, but thanks anyway.”

“You need to understand your situation,” he mumbles. Not demanding obedience, but offering answers.

I’m too riled up to care about this buggy Smith version 2.0. At least I knew where I stood with Mr. Sadist.

“My situation?” I snort. “I’m surrounded by liars and psychos, that’s my fucking situation. Was anyone in my life who they said they were? Or are you going to tell me our parents were Russian spies?”

“Mom was always honest with you,” Ricky says in a strained voice.

“Try Italian mafia.” Smith is calm and collected, where Ricky’s barely keeping it together.

I stare at Ricky, then at Smith, then splutter out a confused, “What? My mother was in the?—”

Smith cuts in with an exasperated, “Not her.”

I turn to Ricky. “Wh?—”

Ricky sighs, massaging his eyelids with his good hand. “Franco.”

“I don’t?—“

“He wasn’t just some deadbeat who abandoned us, Sis.”

“Then—”

“Franco Marconi was a hitter for the Torrino family,” Smith cuts in quietly.

Damn these guys for not letting me get a word in edge wise.

“The Italian mafia,” he reluctantly clarifies, like he’d rather I not know these things. “Had women and kids stashed all over the country to keep him occupied between jobs.”

“So Audrey was just one of his side pieces?” Bitterness floods my mouth.

“You were under Italian protection,” Smith carries on like I didn’t even speak. “When Franco disappeared, that protection disappeared with him. That’s when Bogota stepped in.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “So let me get this straight. My stepfather was a mob assassin. The cartel killed my mother. And my brother’s been a gangbanger for the past two years of his life.”

“Zoey—” Ricky starts.

“What does that make me?” I look between them. “What the fuck does that make me?”

Smith’s jaw tightens. In his world, I know what this means. I’m connected to two rival criminal organizations.

I’m a liability. A threat.

A target.

“Extremely lucky to have survived this long,” Smith says.

“Jesus,” I mutter, clamping a hand over my forehead. If there weren’t so many drugs in my system, I’m sure I’d have a raging headache by now.

“And someone who needs protection,” he adds.

“From who?” I say through a laugh.

“Everyone.” The simple honesty in his voice should terrify me. Instead, it’s almost comforting, despite how frustrated and scared I am.

At least they’re finally being straight with me.

“Any other skeletons in our closet, Bro?” I ask Ricky. When he just drops his head, I sigh and sink back onto the pillows. “Good. Because I need a fucking nap after all that shit you just dumped on me.”

“You asked—” Ricky begins.

“We should let her rest,” Smith says, grabbing Ricky’s shoulder and hauling him to his feet.

“Yeah, fuck,” he mutters, ripping free. “You’re the one who made me tell her.”

I groan, closing my eyes and mentally willing them to leave the room. But it seems I haven’t fully regained my telekinetic powers yet, because only Ricky heads for the door.

After a brief, internal struggle, I call out, “Ricky?”

My brother pauses at the door. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re alive, you lying piece of shit.”

He grins, and fuck, it’s good to see how it lights up his face. “Love you too, Sis.”

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with Smith.

He’s returned to his position by the window, but I can feel the weight of his stare. When I finally look at him, his expression is unreadable.

“So,” I say, my voice hoarse. “What happens now?”

“Now you rest,” he says, turning to draw the shades.

“After that.”

He pauses, one hand still gripping the thick fabric. “People will be looking for you, Zoey. You and Ricky need to disappear.”

“If you think for one second I’m becoming Patricia?—“

“Then where will you go?” Smith stalks up to the bed, grimacing en route like he forgot how much his leg hurt. “Because you can’t stay here, Zoey.”

“Why the hell not?”

Why am I fighting this? I’ve been wanting out since the day Smith caught me. But he’s right, and I guess it’s something I haven’t really wrapped my head around yet.

I have nowhere else to go.

No money.

No home.

I have Ricky…but he has as much as I do. As in, nothing.

“They know you’re here. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out some way of getting in.”

“They?”

“The Bogota cartel.”

“But you killed Elonzo. Surely?—”

“That changes nothing,” Smith says, his quiet words still cutting me off. “There’s a black mark on the Dennen family name, and nothing can erase it.”

I glare at him, but the expression fades as the reality of what he’s saying starts sinking in.

Frustration draws a furrow between his brows, clenches his jaw.

“I don’t like it either,” he murmurs, so quietly I think I must have misheard. “But you have to go back to your world, and I have to go back to mine.”

“What if I don’t want to go back to my world?”

Something flickers in his dark eyes. I can’t tell if it’s hope or fear.

“Zoey—”

“What if I want to stay in yours?” My voice is stronger now.

Smith’s jaw tightens, and he’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then show me.”

With the shades drawn, the room is cast in gloom. Heavy shadows fall over Smith’s face, obscuring everything but the tiny gleam in his eyes that tells me he’s still alive. Still a man, even after everything I’ve seen.

“You sure about that, kitten?”

His words feel darkly ominous. Like they have the power to save us both, or destroy us completely.

My heart pounds so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t tear my stitches.

“Show me everything.”

He says nothing, just slowly shakes his head as he moves toward the door.

“I want to know, Smith.”

He pauses, hand hovering over the light switch, and I hear him laugh quietly to himself. But he cuts off with a sigh, glancing back at me over his shoulder for a long moment before flicking the switch.

When the light goes out, the shadows rush in to replace them.