Page 72 of Letters From Victor

His words struck like a slap. I swallowed against the tightness in my throat, forcing down the sting behind my eyes. I wouldn’t let him see me cry.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmured.

The laugh he let loose was bitter, devoid of any real humor. “Oh, Barbara. Sweet, naïve Barbara. You really don’t know, do you?”

A chill ran up my spine. My fingers dug into the counter’s edge. “Know what?”

“Your precious Victor isn’t just some big-shot businessman. He’s a criminal, Barb. A mobster.”

The room tilted. My breath caught. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “That’s not true. Victor’s a real estate developer. He?—”

“Wake up!” Frank roared, slamming his palm on the table.

The crash sent a jolt through me.

“His ‘real estate developments’ are just fronts,” he said, seething. “He’s running protection rackets, illegal gambling dens, and God knows what else.”

My mind reeled as his words sank in. A wave of nausea rolled through me.

“You’re lying,” I whispered, more to myself than Frank. “Victor would never…”

His face twisted into a cruel sneer. “What’s the matter, Barb? Your knight in shining armor’s not so shiny after all?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Victor is a good man.”

“A good man?” Frank spat. “Is that what you tell yourself when you’re spreading your legs for him like a cheap whore?”

The slap came before I even realized I’d moved. A sharp crack rang through the kitchen as my palm connected with his cheek. Frank stumbled back, stunned, one hand hovering at his face. A dull sting pulsed through my fingers, but I barely noticed it over the fury burning inside me.

“Frank, I—” I began, my voice faltering, but he cut me off with a raised hand—not to strike, but to silence.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice tight with fury. “Don’t you dare.”

A deep red mark bloomed on his cheek, stark against his pale skin. Guilt gnawed at me, but so did rage. The once-cheerful yellow kitchen suddenly felt like a pressure cooker, the heat and tension threatening to explode.

Frank straightened up slowly, adjusting his tie with stiff, trembling fingers. “You want to know how I know about Victor Cardello?” he asked, his voice eerily calm. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because I owed him money. A lot of money.”

“I know.”

His eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering. “How could you possibly know?”

“Victor told me”—I swallowed hard—“when you paid off the debt in one lump.”

Frank let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “And you thought that was the whole truth, didn’t you? Remember those ‘business trips’ last year?” Frank let out another humorless laugh. “I wasn’t working. I was gambling. And losing. Big.”

“I know that too.”

His gaze drifted past me, unfocused. “I thought Victor was doing me a favor.” His voice dropped, the words edged with shame. “I’d worked with Victor a few times, insuring some of his high-end properties. We got along. I thought maybe we even had a friendship. So when I was drowning, I went to him. I thought he was offering me a lifeline.”

I could see where this was going, and I hated it.

“But kindness turned to something else. He started making demands. And then, when I couldn’t keep up, he got his eyes on you.”

A cold chill ran through me.

“Do you remember that dinner in December?”

I remembered it all too well—the way Victor had watched me, the casual yet intense interest in his eyes. At the time, I’d felt flattered. Admired. Completely unaware.

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