Page 61 of The Wicked

“Wipe it. No use.”

“Sir, Casmiro was in your home lounge, sir.”

I clenched my jaw. “Make sure those two get to their quarters without trouble.”

“Yes, Marino.”

I walked away without a glance at them. The need to punish myself had vanished—no, it had been sated. The only person I loved hated me; the only person I lived for saw me as everyone else did.

That was the worst punishment I could ever get. It was both physical and emotional, and I held on to it, held on to that feeling like it was the very ice the burn in my chest needed.

I held on to Elia’s hate for me. It was all I’d ever wanted anyway; I just never thought it would feel even worse than the thought of dying.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Elio

Taking over the Marino empire had been one of the hardest things I had ever done. It was easy faking my father’s death, effortlessly slipping into his shoes and taking over from where he left off. But even with the “Wicked” persona he had created for me before he “died,” I had still struggled with our associates and other higher-ups who didn’t see me as experienced enough to fill his shoes and run the business smoothly.

I was too young compared to everyone who answered to me.

Even now, though they didn’t outrightly complain out of fear of offending the psychopath who would likely wipe out their whole existence, there were still murmurs. The old ones were still too traditional with their ways, fearing to take things to the next level and strengthen their families.

Old ones like Edoardo, who firmly believed in bond and family, detested betrayal and could ruin the reputation of any house if he so much as called a meeting with his little oldies. The sixty-seven-year-old man was a grumpy, uninterested traditionalist who still led by old laws.

Delusional men.

I was the lawless one, toying with politics and being almost legal. I was the one who betrayed and two-timed. I was reckless because I was young and didn’t know actual loss and the love of family.

I agreed. My conscience and the feeling of right or wrong were gone. All I had to do now was complete this goal, and if having a sit-down with Edoardo in this very bright andun-sanitized city restaurant would help me accomplish that, then so be it.

I looked at my watch for the sixth time, watching people enter and exit the restaurant. Impatience curled in my stomach. “So unprofessional. How can a man like him disrespect time?” I complained, and Casmiro merely glanced at me with a slight lift of his shoulders, his eyes glued to the newspaper he was reading.

I sighed, reached for my cigar packet and my lighter, lighting one up and placing it between my lips, eyeing Casmiro. “How long will you keep this up, hm?”

He didn’t respond, and I shook my head. It had been three days since I returned home from the pool to an empty home. No Casmiro. He had apparently seen the footage; he knew what Elia meant to me but hadn’t said anything about it.

In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. I hadn’t seen much of him. If he had a message to pass across to me, he’d send one of his men to deliver it. I gave him his space and time to process it, but it was apparent he needed more time to wrap it around his head that my father had another son, and he was Elia. And I hid it from everyone, including him.

“We have work to do. We should be in agreement,” I said, blowing out the smoke and nodding my head at the explosion of vanilla flavor. I rechecked the pack, reading what the stick was made of. “You should try this; it has a wonderful flavor.” I extended it to him.

Slowly, he looked up from the newspaper, a scowl on his face as he watched me with disbelief. “I quit smoking, E. Three fucking years ago.”

I dropped the pack immediately. “I remember that.”

“Right, you do,” he muttered, shaking his head and looking back at the newspaper, completely shielding his face from view.

I sighed, relaxing back in the chair, my fingers drumming on the table, my knees bouncing up and down, feeling even more restless than I did before.

“After this,” I said, “I will be visiting a gallery for an art exhibit. Mayor Artyom Smirnov invited me. There will be lots of political talks and many things you can learn fr—”

“I’ll be busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“I’ll be overseeing some shipments of petroleum, oil, and gas.”

I nodded. “The one housing five thousand barrels?”