Raine (Gods of the Fifth Floor #2) - M.V. Ellis Page 0,78

if you knew what I did. I mean, you’d be sorry for her, but not for me. I don’t deserve your pity.”

“Condolences aren’t pity.”

“That’s semantics, and like I said, you wouldn’t be offering either if you knew what I did and what I am.”

She shifted in her seat opposite me. Mi Famiglia was kind of the Italian equivalent of Wong and Sons, except at the opposite end of the size scale. Where Wong and Sons was cavernous, and could seat around two hundred people, La Famiglia was tiny and intimate, and if there were more than ten people in there at any one time, it started to feel claustrophobic. Twenty, and I was fairly sure there were several health code violations taking place at once

The thing the two places had in common was the family run, down-home kind of vibe. No fuss, no pomp and ceremony, just really good food, simply presented, and a casual, come-as-you-are vibe.

After years of being paraded at top restaurants with my parents, merely as social proof that we were a functioning family unit—the biggest fallacy on the fucking planet—I actually hated fine dining. I’d much rather eat somewhere real and honest with the paint peeling from the walls, and wobbly tables stabilized with folded-up paper napkins, than pretty much any Michelin starred restaurant the world over.

“I don’t know. I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, and it’s been six weeks. Just because you can be... difficult sometimes, that doesn’t mean you’re unworthy of my condolences. Losing a sibling isn’t easy, no matter who you are.”

“Really? You think you know me, based on a few weeks working together and few hot screws. You’re so naïve. You have no fucking idea.”

“I may not know the specifics, but I’m not the ingenue you see me as, and like I said, I think I have the measure of you.”

“You do, do you? Okay, so will you still think I’m worthy of your condolences once you know that I didn’t lose my sister, I killed her?”

Chapter 30

Noa

* * *

I swore to God that the world stopped spinning on its axis. Everything just froze in time, including my throat that was partway through swallowing a mouthful of gnocchi. I was paralyzed by a combination of shock, disbelief and fear. What the fuck had I just heard?

“Breathe, Noa. You’re going to choke.”

I did my best to do what he was saying, but I couldn’t. My throat was clogged, but my brain was more so. My eyes started to tear up and bug out, while I could feel the blood rising up my face. He’d killed his sister. God knew how, and now he was possibly going to kill me without even trying.

“Jesus Christ, don’t fucking pass out.” He got up and came to my side of the table, I guessed to give me the Heimlich maneuver, but in the event, instead, he thudded three times on my back between my shoulder blades. On the third hit, the ball of pasta dislodged, and slipped further down my throat. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least I could breathe.

I gulped in huge painful gasps of air, while uncried tears spilled down my face. When I had the wherewithal, I mopped at my cheeks with my napkin and took a few sips of water to try to ease the pain in my throat. I couldn’t remember when I’d been more humiliated, except for the time in Kindergarten when I’d asked the teacher if I could use the bathroom and she’d refused, resulting in me peeing my pants, and even that was a close call.

“What did you just say?” I pushed my plate away. My appetite had vanished instantly.

“You heard me. I. Killed. My. Sister. And like I said, you think differently of me now. I saw the light die in your eyes just then.”

“You’re telling me you killed your sister in cold blood? Murdered her?”

“No, not in cold blood, but that’s semantics. If not for me, she’d be alive today. I have her blood on my hands.”

“What exactly happened?” I knew he hated me probing into his life, sticking my “Nancy Drew” nose where it wasn’t wanted, but I figured that having put the information about his sister out there without being prompted, he must have known I was going to ask more questions. It was not every day that someone confessed that they were a killer.

“I killed her. What more do you need to know?”

“Everything. You can’t just drop a bombshell like that,