Page 220 of House of Cards

“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. “Whatthe fuckdoes 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.

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