“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 community that he gave all his money to.”
My husband states, “One minute.”
“Alright, Leith.”