Mafia Casanova - M. Robinson Page 0,60
the first ring.
I didn’t hesitate in stating…
“We’ve got a big fucking problem.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“In an evil society the villain is the hero, because only the villain can speak the truth.” —T.J. Kirk
Eden
Now
I tried not to think of what he would do to me if he found out, but I couldn’t get the vision of those bank statements out of my head or the fact that Romeo had just taken them like he owned them.
The chances were slim that he took them to his apartment, though when he’d left his keys on the counter, the temptation had been too intense.
If Tristian was hiding those documents?
What else was being hidden from me?
Had Romeo just taken the box to his house?
For reasons I really didn’t want to explore, I knew that Romeo wouldn’t be that upset if he caught me in his apartment. After all, wasn’t that where he took all the women he seduced?
Would I just be another victim if he caught me?
I was lying to myself if I thought I was anything but his brother’s widow—someone he’d once loved.
Tarnished.
Forgotten.
Naz was spending the weekend with his grandparents and a few of his friends in their neighborhood. He’d begged me; the timing couldn’t be more perfect. I had dropped him off and watched him sprint into the house like his heels were on fire.
I still laughed at the sight.
He said I was his favorite.
Until he saw Papa or one of his friends that had nerf guns, and then all bets were off. He was gone in a flash.
With a sigh, I clenched the steering wheel and pulled into Romeo’s penthouse parking garage. His was on the top floor, and I couldn’t help but remember what had happened last time I was here.
His drunkenness after my engagement.
The almost kiss.
I gave my head a shake, turning off the engine. If he was keeping something from me, I deserved to know it.
I’d suffered for it.
Endured.
Been handed over, tossed away, and abused because of this life, so why didn’t I deserve answers? Out of everyone, they belonged to me.
Everyone said it was for my protection, but I called bullshit. I’d been a part of this life for a long time, and something felt strangely off about Tristian’s death, about Romeo staying with me. Maybe it was my own guilt over lying in the same bed I’d shared with my dead husband. The fact I craved it, liked it, used to dream about it when it was Tristian who pulled me close.
“Shit.” I hit the steering wheel then made the choice.
I got out of the car.
I walked into the building.
I waved the keys in my hand at the guard.
I hit the penthouse button.
I walked in.
I tried to escape the memories of being in that elevator with Romeo, but it didn’t matter. Romeo had always been a part of me; he always would be.
In ways his brother never had been.
Never could have been.
His brother had my heart, we were best friends, he made me laugh, he made me feel safe.
Romeo made me feel unhinged, crazy like I was seconds away from strangling him then kissing him. He was dangerous, not a sure thing, and yet knowing what I now know…
He was surer than the sun rising every day.
More than the moon in the sky every night.
More constant than breathing.
Romeo, for all of his faults, thought of others before himself; he was fiercely loyal, sacrificial almost to a fault.
I swallowed the dryness in my throat, stepping into the penthouse hallway, and walked toward his solid black door.
I shoved the key in and turned.
The memories were like ghosts, lurking, haunting with each step into the darkness. They washed over me like a holy baptism that had me frozen in place.
This man.
This place.
I sucked in a shaky breath and squeezed my eyes shut. How had we ended up like this? And how the hell did we even begin to fix it?
No time to open up Pandora’s Box, I finally found the strength to move through the apartment and start my search, and I knew just where to start.
His office.
My white Adidas tennis sneakers squeaked against the black marble floor that was so clean a person could eat off it. I guess one got good at cleaning when blood was a daily thing.
Stupidly, that thought had my lips twitching at the times he’d come home covered in blood, not lipstick, like he wanted to prove to me that he was on a different path, one of revenge and retribution.
Not of seduction.
Sex.
Fucking.
His office door was