Page 71 of Flame
But for some reason I’m not even fully aware of, I’m compelled to keep talking. “She was going to expose something about your business,” I say bluntly. “Then, she wound up dead.”
I marvel at the steady voice issuing from my throat.
Gino, however, sneers at the sound. “Was she, now?” He throws his head back for a loud, barking laugh that has no real amusement in it. Fixing me with a raised eyebrow, he questions, “And what was she going to expose, huh?”
“You tell me,” I snap back. “Like…” Glancing around, it’s unsettling to realize that many of the dancers resemble Lylah. All are wearing skimpy dresses, and nearly every last one looks too young from the wrong angle. Scared. “Like what kind of business you might be offering other than just lap dances.”
Blood rushes through my ears as I belatedly process the dangerous game I’ve just started—and with an opponent like Gino, who seems to have no trouble breaking into people’s property and beating them bloody.
His eyes meet mine with an intensity that warns me he’s more than capable of doing worse. So much worse. “Oh, really?” he murmurs. One by one, he cracks his knuckles.
“The p-police are already investigating,” I point out, though I find myself eyeing the exit again. The impulse to escape strengthens, and my toes twitch anxiously in their borrowed black heels. “And if anyone else goes missing—”
“Like Faith?” he interjects. His green eyes flit over me as he cocks his head. Whatever impression he has of me makes him scoff. “You really suck at this whole ‘Nancy Drew’ shit, don’t you?”
He slams a hand over the table, so suddenly I jump, but all he does is pointedly flex each finger. “The police, huh? You really think they can do shit?” His cruel smile widens, exaggerating his appearance even more. “Ask your little boyfriend how well the cops around here operate.”
But Rafe already told me as much—they’re under Gino’s thumb. Even Branden admitted as much.
“You want to talk aboutFaith?” Gino says. “Fine. Let’s talk, starting with one little question. You look like a smart girl—who do you think led her to Rafael?”
I feel my eyes widen before I can disguise any reaction.
Still smiling, Gino reads me clearly and nods. “Oh, yes, baby. And the dumb motherfucker couldn’t even sell me out right.” His upper lip curls back from his teeth, his eyes unfocused once more. A part of me shies away from the assessment at first, but there’s no way around it now. He’s desperate.
And terrified.
“Why?” I ask, more confused than ever. “Were you trying to set him up?”
It would make sense, fitting his cartoon villain persona, but his brow furrows to betray an emotion I least expect. Not smug pride. Just grim irritation.
Hoarsely, I propose another option, “Were you trying to warn him?”
He leans forward, fixing me with a chilling stare. “And if I were?” I can barely hear him above the pulsating rock music—by design, I suspect. His eyes flit around the room, revealing the same paranoia as the girl in the bathroom.
“So you sent Faith to warn Rafe. Why?” I can barely keep the disbelief from my tone. “Why attack him then? Unless you really believe he set the fire.”
Any minute, I expect him to laugh or break into some super villain sermon.
Instead, he looks down at his hands, his jaw clenched. “Because some shit isn’t worth it. And as much of a pansy fucker Rafael is, I know he’s a boy scout. Though, apparently, not a very fucking good one.”
Some shit isn’t worth it…
“I guess this wasn’t all your idea?” I surmise, deliberately skirting naming the topic outright. Again, I keep staring at the various dancers with increasing dread. Despite Gino’s confession, I can’t ignore the obvious—if he attacks me now, there isn’t much I could do to stop him. “Why tell me all of this?”
He lifts his hands tiredly, his smile lopsided, teeth bared. “I’m dead anyway,” he says simply. “I’m in this shit too fucking deep. But thanks to your boyfriend, I no longer have a choice.”
“Why?” I ask hoarsely. His tone unsettles me more than him attacking me would. Gone is the cocky swagger I’d expect. All that remains is an emotion that eerily mirrors how Branden had looked pacing his living room.
Raw, open helplessness.
“Who are you working for?” I ask.
“Who do you think?” he snarls, practically lunging across the table.
I jump back, scrambling for the end of the booth, but he doesn’t make a move to stop me.
“Are you that fucking dumb?” he demands, curling his hands into fists. “I’ll give you a hint. Someone who wouldn’t want his lackey to know where the real money comes from. Not the same darling nephew who put his own father in prison. Someone with a lot more to fucking lose than me. You mentioned the fire? Ask yourself who benefited from it. Maybe the guy who could spin it as retribution for a dead girl when in reality, he hasn’t done a damn thing about it?”
