Page 78 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

My father has let me down, and so has Aunt Viv by being selective of the truth.

“Innocent people have died,” I say, allowing more tears to fall. “Families are grieving their loved ones, and Ben is behind it all. Why are you lying for him, Viv? He treated us like shit, and you’re staying silent. How much money is he paying you?”

Viv looks at me, her eyes pooling with sadness. “I’m not lying for him,” she eventually says after a few beats of silence. “I’m lying for your mother, to protect you.”

“The truth is always better than lying.”

Viv continues studying me. “How did you find out this information? From Salvatore Moretti?”

“He’s trying to shut this down.”

“Then he is finally doing something right.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what these billionaires are like, dear. They are only interested in protecting themselves. Mr. Moretti falls into that elite category and may be only interested in covering his tracks, but it is still a step in the right direction.”

“What do you mean?”

“Organized crime should be abolished.”

I sit back into the couch, mulling over that statement. A few weeks ago, I would have thought the same thing. But now? I’m not so sure. It takes one form of evil to kill another, and I know Salvatore has what it takes.

“I deserved to know the truth about my father.”

“It’s like you said, dear—the Crows still exist. Ignorance is bliss.”

“No,” I say, rising from the couch. “Ignorance is ignorance.”

I walk out of the lunchroom, passing the client on my way out of the gallery.

I exhale the biggest sigh when I step back onto the street, running my hands through my hair. I never thought I’d see the day where I trust a mafia leader more than my very own family.

To relieve some stress, I decide to head over to Fifth Avenue. Turns out I could use some retail therapy after all to escape the drama for a while.

I catch the subway and hold on tight to the rail as the train screeches through the tunnel.

“Does Aunt Viv ever laugh?”

“Not like she used to,” says my mom as she joins me on the couch. “She used to laugh, quite a lot actually, back when we were kids. She was a menace.”

“I can’t picture that.”

“She would hide my dolls. She thought it was hilarious. And then I took it a step too far and ripped one of her paintings,” cringes my mom. “She’d been working on that painting all week, but I was too mad about my dolls to give her paintings any thought.” My mom stares into space, reflecting on something. “She hasn’t been that way since your father left. I was only three months pregnant with you at the time. Ever since then, she stopped with the silly games and started caring. It was weird. Sometimes I wish that old version of her would come back.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like seeing you upset.”

“Maybe,” says my mom. “Or maybe she straightened out when her art branch picked up.”

“Running a business sounds like serious stuff.”

“Very serious.”

“So serious that you have to douse your entire apartment in sage every night before you go to sleep.”

“And say a prayer to the moon,” adds my mother.

We both fall into laughter.