Page 110 of Devil's Iris
“What are you doing here? Did something else happen?” Mom asks, hesitating for a moment before placing her hand on my good arm to guide me. I follow her without resistance,settling beside her on the bench. “Are you okay?” A strange expression crosses her face as she studies me. “Did—did something happen between you and your husband?”
So perspective. Even through her own recovery, she can read the wreckage written all over my face.
I shake my head quickly. “No, no, Romero and I are fine.” Not really, but I don’t want to get into it with her. I hesitate as I glance over my mom. How do I tell her that her husband was killed by mine? My throat tightens, the words choking me.
Taking a deep breath for courage, I grab her hand, frowning at the scars and lines marking her skin. “Dad didn’t run away back then. He–he was killed,” I finally say.
“What?” Her tone is strange, almost hollow, so I force myself to look at her face and freeze at what I see there. She’s staring at me blankly, her expression chillingly empty. My brows pinch together in worry. Should I not be telling her this? Would it get in the way of her recovery?
But I can’t keep it to myself. One of the things I’m angriest at Romero about is that he knew all along he’d ordered my dad’s death but chose not to tell me. Yes, he was right that it happened years ago and all, but he should’ve been honest with me from the start.
I don’t want Mom to feel this same betrayal later when she finds out I know, so I push on. “I just found out that—that he was killed. Someone hired an assassin to kill him.” I swallow the lump in my throat, chickening out at the last second.
I don’t know why I can’t tell her it was Romero who did it. God, I’m still protecting that motherfucker, aren’t I? Would I ever be able to stop loving him? Even now, with my heart in ruins, I miss him like a missing limb.
“You mean your husband sent someone to kill him?” Mom looks at me with knowing eyes, and I go rigid.
“You knew?” I’m not sure if I should be angry, hurt, or relieved.
“Your husband’s hitman never got the chance, Leni. Your husband didn’t kill John.” She squeezes my arm like she’s trying to comfort me. “Your father was already dead before the hitman could get to him.”
“What?” My jaw drops, my hand going limp in her grip. “How do you know that?”
“Because I did it.Ikilled him.”
39
LENI
I blink at Mom, mouth agape. “You didwhat?Mom, do you even know what you’re saying?” For the first time since I got here, I’m scanning her eyes frantically, searching for that telltale glassy sheen. Did she somehow manage to sneak drugs in here? Is she completely out of her mind right now?
But her gaze is sharp. Clear. Devastatingly sober.
“Yes, Leni, I know exactly what I’m saying,” she says, her voice steady. “And no, before you even think it, I’m not high. Haven’t been since—since you came to get me at our old house.”
Jesus Christ.
She’s on her feet now, hands trembling as she starts pacing. The nervous energy radiating off her makes my skin crawl. “Your father wasn’t some heroic cop who got wrongfully fired, Leni. He was dirty. Corrupt to his core.”
My chest tightens. What?No. That can’t be true.
“He was in cahoots with the same criminals he was supposed to be arresting. Tipping them off about raids, feeding them inside information, all for cash. But here’s the twisted part—he was also giving information about them back to hiscolleagues at the police department. Playing both sides.” Her voice drips with disgust. “His partner finally caught on and that’s when he was fired. That’s why we never got a pension, why we never got anything.”
The air feels suffocating suddenly. I mean, yeah, Iknewdad was dishonorably discharged, but I always thought it was some tragic mistake. Maybe he shot the wrong person during a case, or made a judgment call that went sideways. Not… notthis.
“After they fired his ass, he went full time with those gangsters—that’s right around the time your husband and his friends started taking over the city.” She’s still pacing, her voice getting more animated. “It was all over the news back then. The gang members weren’t happy with this, so they sent your father to infiltrate his operation—spy on Romero for them from the inside.”
She stops pacing and looks directly at me. “But what did your father do when he got there? He started playing both sides.Again. Never learned his lesson the first time—the little rat.”
She pauses, as if expecting a response, but I can only stare at her numbly, lips parted. When I say nothing, she runs a hand through her thinning hair and resumes her pacing.
“Well, surprise, surprise—both sides figured it out. And neither was happy. Romero sent a hitman after him; the gangsters sent their own men. Your father was trapped with nowhere to run.”
Her hands ball into fists at her sides, and her mouth twists into something ugly. “You were in the seventh grade then. Remember that day? That idiot had the nerve to suggestIstay behind in our apartment while he went to pick you and Ethan up from school. Said he’d take you to safety because we might be in danger if the people after him couldn’t find him. Swore he’d come back for me.”
She lets out a bitter scoff. “As if I was a fool. I had startedusing opium by then—just little amounts here and there to ease my stress, nothing serious yet. He tried to use that as leverage to get me to take the fall for him. No way in hell was I going to do something like that. My babies needed me.”
My babies.Something in my chest cracks at the possessive fierce love in those words.
