Page 42 of Danger Close
“Mrs. Teresa Guerro.” I said the name out loud just to taste it on my tongue.
My need to be near her, to be a part of her, was an ache that I’d written off as a folly of youth. But here I was, past middle-age and still wanting her as desperately as I had when I was a twenty-year-old buck.
What am I going to do with you, Princess? How can I wipe the fear and pain from your eyes?
The bright lights in the bottom floor glowed through the large windows. My brother was still awake. Insomnia ran in the family.
I stepped through the glass double doors, opening it wide to the cool marble interior.
“In here!” Jericho’s voice wafted like a foul smell from his office.
I sighed, pivoting from the grand staircase that led up to our rooms, and turned towards the library that served as Jericho’s office.
My brother scowled behind his grand desk, his eyes weary as he pressed two fingers to his forehead. Without looking, Jericho flicked his wrist towards the vacant armchair in front of him.
I really, really,reallydidn’t feel like dealing with his dramatics today. But there was no other way to converse with Jericho Vasiliev.
“Your’e still awake?” I said, looking at the time. Almost midnight.
“Dismantling the Mafia is tiresome work,” he said with a long, aggrieved sigh.
In his time as the head of Paradigm, he’d halved the power of the big Mafia families, including our own. Our father, Anton Vasiliev’s legacy,gone!And good riddance.
I was surprised that he hadn’t torn this mansion apart himself, brick by brick.
“I’ve assembled a report on the findings from Teresa Guerro’s phone, and a preliminary data search.” He flicked a hand towards a folder on his desk without looking up from the papers he shuffled around.
I was surprised that wasallhe’d done. I reached out to pick up the slim folder, flicking up to the front page, but not reading anything.
“I’m surprised at your restraint,” I chuckled.
“I did not run a full check because, as you’ve previously stated, you wanted us to,” he leaned back in his seat, interlocking his fingers over his abs, “Keep our noses out of your personal life.”
The passive aggressive little shit.
He was angry that twenty-nine years ago, my divorce papers crossed his desk. I told him to sign it on my behalf then butt out. I told him to refrain from meddling in Teri’s life, and in my daughter’s.
He’d never forgiven me.
He kept whining, “that’s my niece! She’smyblood!”
I’d never heard the end of it. He metaphorically slapped me silly, telling me to fight for our family, and for my child. He told me to investigate, and figure out what the hell happened. But my juvenile heart knew, without a doubt, that Teri had gotten myletters, and my bank account, and still decided that she’d had enough. That I wasn’t welcome in the life she built around our child.
That was the day I lost custody of Trinity Blaze Guerro, and Jericho had never, ever, forgiven me.
Now that the picture of what had happened became clearer, one pixel at a time, I wasn’t sure I could forgive myself either. And I sure as fuck never wanted to admit that my brother was right about something. I’d never hear the end of it.
“Care to give me a summary?” I lifted the folder, hoping to get us back on track.
Jericho shrugged, his lips pursed. The man loved to hear himself talk, so if I just waited him out, he’d spill whatever the findings were. He stared at me, unblinking, his thumb wiping over his bottom lip.
“Teresa Guerro’s phone is uneventful. No social media to speak of, which is bizarre.” His slow, cadenced Russian accent bugged me. He was born in the US, but since becoming the Pakhan, he played up the accent as a means of intimidation.
To be honest, it kind of worked for him. No one was scared of an American accent. Except for maybe a North Korean.
“What psychopath in this day and age has no social media?” Jericho lifted a single brow.
Me. I had no social media. But I went for a more obvious answer,“Youhave no social media.”
