I get yer woman out of the car, or ye be dying.” He grips Fausto’s hair, bringing him to his knees. “Do ya understand that I mean a world of pain more than what my wife has in store?”
“Okay.” Fausto wheezes through gritted, yellow teeth.
In a wide-legged stance, I reach beneath my dress to remove the Glock from the thigh strap.
“You’re looking for your mom?” he asks, scrutinizing my gun wearily. “Marcy manipulated you, Carla. You’re little Carla Anderson. I refuse to refer to you by that ridiculous name Marcy gave you. All of this is because of her. Not me!”
I fist the power in my palm. “Eh, I picked my name. My momma gave that bitch a Chevelle. We drove away from my horror story of a life in a Chevelle. Besides, I love my name; my soulmate loves my name. So, Chevelle’s my fucking name.” I lift my chin in defiance. “So, that bitch murdered my parents all alone? No help?”
“Yes! It was—”
“Well, dead people can’t answer for themselves. That leaves you.”
“No!” Spittle flies from his coffee teeth. “Let me grab my phone. I’ll give you Marcy’s address. Your mom—”
“Stop calling her my mom!” I snarl. “What phantom address will you pull out of your rotten ass?”
“Marcy’s alive!”
Damn, I’m unable to read him. He hasn’t offered a flicker of deception or the slightest tell.
“Should I let Ophelia go?” I gesture to his immaculate fiancée. Leith flings her into Fausto. He scoots around on his knees, placing distance between them. She gasps at his nonverbal answer.
“Three.” Leith refers to our window of time, coming to my side.
“Fausto says Marcy’s not dead,” I whisper.
“I saw a death certificate. Last tax form she submitted was years ago. Who knows, hen. Marcy could be living off the grid, or she could be dead. Ye trust him?” My husband lifts a brow.
“Ophelia.” I point the gun at her.
Her manicured fingers fly to her face, and the businesswoman cowers against the Bentley.
Stepping to her, I prod the tip of the Glock against her temple. “Ophelia, how do you know when Fausto’s lying?”
“I don’t know,” she cries over and over. “I don’t know a Marcy!”
“C’mon, you wanted to marry this knucklehead. An entrepreneur like you should know her future husband. My husband’s eyes shift a little when he lies.” Leith smirks. I add, “What is this sociopath’s tell, Ophelia?”
“I have no idea. He’s good for sex,” she whimpers.
“So, you don’t care if he dies?”
“No.” She knits her hands as if praying. “Just spare me.”
“Last question.” I nod. “What happened? You were excited to collaborate.”
Running an index finger through her tears, Ophelia relaxes. “The first few days, I discussed the idea with my chef. As promised, we were interested in pairing your brews with our tasting menu—”
“Hurry up,” Leith growls.
“The plans changed.” Her voice wobbles. “Fausto saw your name on a potential business proposal. He had me stall. That’s all I know, Chevelle. I-I called you. I tried to warn you!”
“Yes, you did.” Inside, I’m laughing at her attempt. I hand the gun to Leith, nodding toward Ophelia.
Relieved, Ophelia shakes as she cries. “Thank—”
A bullet penetrates her eyes, and she falls to her side. Crouching in his own area, Fausto glances over his shoulder at Ophelia. His eyes bite shut. Without a break in emotion, Leith hands the gun back to me. We’d agreed on a few things. Ophelia was a liability, but Fausto was all mine. I lick my lips, tentatively.
While drawing my gaze to Fausto, I ask, “Which one of you pulled the trigger on my mom and dad?”
The deceiver jumps at the opportunity to respond. “Marcy!”
“Sure. Because I should believe my Uncle Fausto.” The dagger rivets another three-sixty in my heart. “Why?”
Fausto’s shoulders lift. “Your pa was my best friend.”
“So why?” I press the gun against his head.
“Two minutes,” Leith grits.
“Why, Fausto!” I scream, ignoring my husband.
“Your dad wasn’t a support to me like I’d been to him. Carla, sweetheart. He had money. Pick your reason.” The devil tosses an empathetic bone. “I regret it.”
I sputter in reply, “My dad helped people.”
“The wrong fucking people, Carla.” He sneers in frustration. “Your dad and I grew up together. His parents died because of gangs in the area. Black-on-black crime! Who attended their funeral? Who supported him? Me!”
My chest has endured so much pain. It hurts to speak. Tears collect in my eyes. Voice shaking, I ask, “Dad owed you something?”
“Yes!” The truth lights in Fausto’s eyes. “More than he owed the same fucking gang-infested