Page 99 of Bitter Lies

“Not yet. You called first. He’ll be my next call.”

Silas reaches inside and pulls out the envelope with his father’s name scrawled across the front. The very one I planted inside while Lane was packing up.

“Have you opened it?”

“No. It’s sealed. Not my business,” I lie, but he doesn’t know that.

To him, I have no reason to lie.

“What do you think it could be? Rico was a sly devil. That much I know.” He holds it up to the light and squints. “Alma bought a painting from my mother—one my father gifted her. He was furious. Rico told him that if he was lucky, one day he’d sell it back to him.”

When he realizes he can’t see shit, he lowers it and slaps it against his leg. “So what do you think I should do about Cort?”

The Botticelli.

That’s why Trent’s so obsessed with that bloody painting. His ex-wife, now dead, must have sold it to piss him off. Who knows why? Those two were like oil and vinegar. The daughter of an Italian mob boss and the king of the Irish mafia. Their marriage was nothing more than a business transaction, one that fell apart as soon as the children were grown and she asked for a divorce, finished with him and his lies.

He’d granted it to her.

Rumor has it she’d threatened to expose his darkest secret if he didn’t. Most didn’t believe that. They chose to believe he’d grown tired of her as well, ready to move on with his life without answering to anyone but himself.

After what I’ve uncovered, I’m inclined to accept she wasn’t bluffing. Proving it will be difficult; she died of cancer almost ten years ago.

“Pay Mr. Theiss a visit. I’d come with you, but as you can see, I’m rather busy.” I hand him the diamond and reach for another velvet bag. This one is full of emeralds. “Don’t even give him the chance to open his mouth and start lying. Show your hand and watch him shit himself. Cort will sell out the other two before you threaten to cut off his pinky. Take Seth with you.”

I’m not sure why I’m the one telling him what to do. Silas is more than capable of working out shit all by himself. He did ask what I thought he should do with Cort, so I tell him. I’m sure he’ll add his own spin, one that’ll make Cort regret ever crossing Silas Doyle.

“Sure you don’t want to join in on the fun?” He snatches the velvet bag the diamond was sitting on.

“As much fun as it sounds, I can’t. Your father will be calling soon, demanding a full report. If he finds out I’m with you, heads are gonna roll.”

Shoving both pouches into his pocket, he pulls out his phone. “Call me when you’re done. I’ll need you when I go after his friends. Those cocksuckers will wish they never left Mother Russia.”

After I see him out, I head back to the gallery and make another call.

“I’m listening,” Trent says.

“Rico’s been busy. Looks like he pissed off some powerful men.” Examining the safe’s contents once more, my eyes fall upon a misplaced brooch. “I believe I have what you wanted me to find.”

“Good. I knew I could trust you. Bring it to me.”

“Are you sure?” I expected that but was hoping he’d come here—give Bear a chance to sniff him.

“Bring. It. To. Me.” Before I say more, he hangs up.

My eyes flick to the portrait of Sofia hanging on the wall. What draws my attention is the brooch pinned to her dress. It’s old, an heirloom passed down through generations.

But how did she get this one? It’s not something her family would’ve owned. The shamrock at its center mirrors the one on Trent’s ring, gleaming the same vibrant green, each detail meticulous. It suggested they were once a pair, now separated.

By whom, though? And why?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, dropping it on the bench as I return my attention to the safe. I don’t take everything; only what matters. The items Trent will actually give a shit about. He can bitch later, but I’m not handing him more than he deserves.

The rest I pack for myself. I’ll drop it off at the house with Bear before heading to Trent’s.

As I lift the last stack of folders, something heavy dislodges, then drops against the metal bottom with a loud thud.

What the hell?