Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel

by Huntington, Parker S.

  The car pulled up to the Empire State Building.

  Lewis greeted me instantly, opening the door before the driver could. His weasel-like face pinched between the eyes. “Mr. Romano—” Frown lines covered his forehead, but I didn’t have time for his constant worrying. There was always something with him.

  I slid out of the car. “Is Elsa here?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Taking long strides to the entrance, I cut him off. I was already late, thanks to Asher’s impromptu wardrobe change. “The building has been closed off?”

  Lewis heaved out a breath as he struggled to match my pace. “Yes. Mr. Romano, I have—”

  We entered the elevator, and I jabbed the button for the top floor. “Are the chefs done preparing the food? Ryker is on time, yes?”

  Ever since he’d won Top Chef, he’d been a perpetually late pain in the ass.

  “Mr. Romano, I—”

  “It’s a yes or no question, Lewis.” I checked my watch. I’d been late for one of my dates with Elsa before, and she’d looked gutted.

  “Yes. But I really have to tell you something.”

  The doors to the elevator opened to the top floor, where a little outdoor patio had been set up for my proposal tonight. I pocketed my phone and stepped out, an apology for being late on my lips when I came face to face with Dad and Elsa.

  The New York City backdrop lit up the night, along with a string of lights I’d had Lewis set up. Our dinner sat on the table behind Elsa, untouched and growing colder by the second. Dad looked unaffected as he saw me, but guilt dripped from Elsa’s widened orbs to the shocked parting of her lips.

  She wore the silver Herve Leger bandage dress I’d gotten for her last week, paired with teardrop earrings quadruple the size of the real tear sliding down her cheek. Her cherry-red hair whipped in the wind, but she did nothing to tame it as she stared at me with those fern-green eyes. Unable to speak.

  Dad’s face gave nothing away. He took a step toward me, reached out to pat my shoulder, thought better of it, and straightened the lapels of his suit. “You have a duty to this family.”

  My eyes narrowed at his words and the way he left without a better explanation. I eyed the guilt smothering Elsa’s face and turned to Lewis. “Return Senator Erickson’s call and let him know I will be attending his function tonight after all. Have the car pick me up in twenty-three minutes—after I finish my dinner.”

  He glanced between me and Elsa. “Are you sure?”

  I leveled him with a glare. “Do it.”

  He left, and I stepped around Elsa, took a seat, and slid the cloth napkin over my lap. I didn’t know what I’d walk in on. Elsa had no interest in my dad, and Dad had no interest in Elsa. But something had plastered that guilt on Elsa’s face, and I’d wait for an explanation as I ate.

  The ring burned a hole in my pocket as I took my first bite of lobster. If I were being introspective, I would have asked myself why I’d told Lewis to send the last-minute RSVP before learning what had happened. My gut instincts told me Elsa had betrayed me somehow, but every other part of me refused to believe it.

  I knew this woman. We’d studied together. Snuck alcohol onto campus and drank it on the soccer fields at night. Fucked under the bleachers during home games. She’d agreed to move to New York with me when she realized I would have moved to Alabama to be with her.

  That woman, the one who woke up early to make me breakfast and took notes for me when family called me away from school, wouldn’t betray me. She just wouldn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not bothering to take a seat.

  I finished off the lobster, then cut into the filet mignon, taking painstaking care to steady my movements.

  She wouldn’t betray you, I assured myself.

  Why else would she apologize? Dad’s presence in me asked.

  Elsa stopped my utensils with a palm on my left hand. “I love you.”

  My eyes cut to her hand, then shifted to her other one, where she clutched a strip of folded paper. I reached out and plucked it from her hand. Her unrelenting grip tightened, and the paper tore at the corners as I stole it from her.

  She gasped at the sound, her other hand shooting out to take the paper back from me but failing. I opened it up. A check. Five million dollars. Signed by one Giovanni Romano. He’d paid her off. To what? Leave me?

  Ice-cold frost trickled into my body as I stared at her with dead eyes. “Five million dollars? Really?”

  I flicked the check onto my plate. The butter from my lobster wet the edges, and she grabbed it, her eyes screaming guilt, but her hands reeking of desperation. I watched as she dabbed the check with the table cloth, trying and failing to dry the butter.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out her panties I’d pocketed earlier, and tossed them at her face. She caught them before they hit the ground. Her eyes widened when she realized what they were, but she used them to dab the fucking check anyway.

  I’d never seen anything more pathetic.

  With the check dried, she met my eyes. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, sounding so stupid, I couldn’t believe she’d graduated top of our class at Wharton. Couldn’t believe this was the woman who’d insisted she pay for her half of every meal. “I-I… You don’t understand. It’s a lot of money.”

  “You would have had so much more, so thank you for reminding me how pathetic you are.”

  She flinched at my words, and I let loose a dry laugh and reached into my pocket. Her eyes widened when I pulled out the velvet case. She had to reach out and steady herself on the table when I unleashed the sixteen-million-dollar ring inside.

  “Bastian—”

  I plucked the ring out of its case and tossed it over the side of the building like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing. She whimpered, running to the railing with an outstretched hand as I stole a fry from her plate and dipped it in her fucking generic-brand ketchup. If I took the time to stop—to breathe in the betrayal from her and my dad—I would probably burn the Empire State Building with both of us in it.

  It wasn’t toxic rage filling my veins but bruising betrayal, inching its way to my throat until my breaths halved, and I had to cough to breath again. She returned to the table, the ring long gone, and the torn and buttered check clutched between her white-knuckled fingers, like she thought I would toss that off the building, too.

  I was tempted.

  I’d never loved anyone before. I saw past thinly-veiled advances and the mafia bunnies who wanted me for my money and status. But Elsa was different. The wholesome girl from the wholesome family who never knew a world of corrupt Senators, Made Men, celebrities, penthouses, and designer clothes existed. Untouched by the Romano syndicate I was heir to.

  She’d inched her way beneath my skin, little by little, and I’d let her because she was supposed to be different.

  How hadn’t I seen the signs?

  She opened her mouth again—probably to beg—but I cut her off. “I never loved you, Elsa.” The lie tore past my lips, unapologetic as I ignored the fact that I would have given up everything—my family, money, and the entire Romano lineage—for her. “We were good for a bit, but it was just entertainment.” I stood, wiped the tear off her cheek with her butter-stained panties, and patted her head. “You’re not capable of providing anything other than a warm cunt to fuck, and I’m not capable of love.”

  Chapter Two

  BASTIANO ROMANO

  Eight Years Later

  Everett: I have career day for summer school. Billy is bringing his dad. Can you come?

  Instead of replying no, I took a pull of my drink. I’d missed Everett’s seventh birthday party, too.

  “Hey, Bastiano.” The mafia bunny’s low voice rasped. She probably meant for it to be seductive, but she sounded like a pack-a-day smoker with double lung implants. “Wanna get out of here?” Her acrylic-tipped finger trailed across my back before she took a seat to my right.

  A condom filled with Icy Hot. The vise gr
ip of a pissed-off orangutan. Two things I’d rather have on my dick than her.

  “Leave,” I replied, not bothering to see who it was or what she wanted. Wasn’t it obvious, though?

  People had a tendency to get distracted by exteriors. I had a nice one. One that, had I not already been born with a gold-coated spoon dangling from my lips, would have afforded me opportunities I hadn’t earned.

  A body layered with muscles. Intense dark eyes. Sharp jawline. Thick, coffee-colored hair. A gentleman’s cut that could cover your car payment and then some. Look past that, and I was a thirty-year-old—almost thirty-one—who didn’t know what he wanted in life.

  If there were a female version of me, I sure as hell wouldn't date her. Still, women fawned over me like my cock was made of gold and they were looking to strike rich. Their mistake.

  I downed the rest of my scotch as my dad sidled next to me at the bar. I knew it was him without looking. I could count on him to always carry around a god-awful scent of pussy and alcohol—two things a son should never have to smell on his father, but it wasn’t like I was any better.

  He rapped his knuckles on the bar table. “I didn’t raise you to be an asshole.”

  I snorted and picked my brain for something that would provoke him. “I know five nannies that would argue you didn’t raise me at all.”

  Not that I minded. As a kid, I’d seen him often, lived a cushy life, had everything I needed. We’d never had problems until he paid Elsa off.

  I lifted a finger, signaling for the bartender to send another scotch my way. He didn’t glance in my direction. Fuck. When did the service get to be so bad at L’Oscurità? I made a mental note to handle it myself or tell Asher, who had opened the bar I managed when he’d left the mafia. I’d decide later when I wasn’t two-thirds of the way to getting shit-faced.

  My dad turned to face me. “That was Benny’s girl. Good kid.”

  “Benny know his daughter’s whoring around, Gio?”

  His eyes flared. He hated when I called him Gio, but he hadn’t regained the right to be called Dad. “Was that what she was doing? Offering herself up to you?”

  “Do you really need to ask?” I reached over the bar top, selected an opened bottle, and poured myself my own goddamn drink.

  “Hey! You can’t—” The bartender finally turned to face me. His words caught in his throat when we made eye contact. He looked torn between averting his eyes and sending puppy dog eyes my way in the off chance I’d show him mercy. Fat chance. He took a step toward me. “S-sorry.”

  Too. Late. It wasn’t my job to teach others how unforgiving the world could be, but I liked the taste of chewing people up and spitting out their hope. Also, my tolerance for incompetence was a whopping zero when it came to my employees. I ran a business not a charity.

  “Mr. Romano, sir…” He faltered for words like a husband caught with his pants down.

  I stared at him for a moment, drawing out the tension, amused by the trail of sweat dripping from his forehead to his collar. This was his last shift here, and he knew it. I could find someone more competent to replace him within the week. At the very least, it would give me something to do while Asher played doting sap to his fiancée Lucy and Elsa continued to keep Everett away from me.

  Gio grabbed the bottle from me after I finished pouring myself three fingers’ worth. He took a long swig straight from the rim that would have made a frat boy proud. “What’s wrong with Benny’s girl? She’s a good-looking gal. Sweet, too, if I remember correctly.”

  “You fuck her then.” I paused, my glass inches from my lips. “Or have you already?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, son. I love your mother.” His jaw ticked at my obvious amusement. It tempted me to list the affairs I knew about, but I didn't for civility’s sake.

  I wasn’t even sure if I loved my mother. I almost forgot what she looked like with how little we saw one another. Looking in the mirror wouldn’t help.

  I had Gio’s high cheekbones. His strong jawline. The full lips and brown eyes. All of his strong Italian features. Whereas Mom’s stature veered on the short and slim side, my dad and I towered several inches over six feet, built like Navy SEALs moonlighting for the WWE.

  I slid a glance to Gio. “Sure.”

  “I do,” he insisted.

  He and Mom shared an arranged marriage of sorts. A total farce, if I’d ever seen one. Back when none of the five American families had gotten along, both of my great-grandfathers thought it would be a good idea to start the first alliance between syndicates, beginning with an arranged marriage between my parents.

  It didn’t really work. The Rossi and Romano syndicates weren’t any closer than they had been before the marriage. Not until I came along, bonding the families with something thicker than half-assed marital vows.

  Still, it wasn’t like a Rossi would come up here for a few drinks and a Knicks game, but say one did. He’d no longer find himself floating face down in the Hudson River for it. Progress, I’d say.

  “She’s my wife. I love her.” It would have been a convincing statement had Gio not downed two fingers of whiskey after saying it. And that sex scent in the air. Someone with anosmia could smell the pussy clinging to his skin.

  I muttered a curse, finally turning to face my dad. “Stop sending mafia bunnies my way, Gio. I’d rather fuck a spiked Fleshlight.”

  Giovanni “Gio” Romano intimidated people. He had to. It came with the territory. No one talked to a Romano caporegime like this. Ever. Apart from me, that was.

  It wasn’t like I didn’t love my dad. We had issues—a past I wanted to forgive yet couldn’t—but I did love him. If he kept trying to rope me into the underworld, that love would dry up. He thought that if, by some stroke of luck, I fell in love with a mafia bunny, I’d follow his footsteps in the family business.

  Never going to happen. Not anymore. That would take nothing short of a miracle, and I wasn’t exactly the type of man to inspire one of those.

  Gio ran a hand along his jaw. “We’re not the plague. We’re your family.”

  I grabbed the bottle from his hands, forgoing my glass and drinking straight from the rim. “Family. Not co-workers. Not bosses. Family. Jesus Christ, Gio. It's not the end of the world if I don't work with you. I'm happy here."

  Not really.

  I didn’t need money. My inheritance exceeded the GDP of some countries, and my MBA from Wharton gifted me with the know-how to multiply my investments. I’d fired Lewis and quit my job at Launder, Inc. eight years ago. Managing Asher’s restaurant was something I did to get Gio off my back. It wasn’t my passion. I wasn’t sure I had any passions, except getting laid, but even that got old.

  Working here afforded me a little distance from the Romano family business. Technically, this wasn’t a mafia establishment, but despite him leaving the mafia, Asher was close enough to the family that Gio had left me alone for a while.

  Until last month. About the same time Asher had proposed to Lucy, Gio had started stirring this shit up again, pushing the daughters of powerful Romano men my way. It needed to stop like Tila Tequila needed a filter.

  “Well, if you're planning on spending the rest of your life managing college kids at a bar”—Gio nodded in the direction of the bartender, though we both knew I actually ran the three-time Michelin star restaurant connected to the bar by the drywall to my left—“you can at least make yourself useful.”

  I didn’t take the bait, instead focusing on the last half of his sentence. “What do you want?”

  He inclined his head in the direction of my office and stood, not bothering to pay for his drink or tip the bartender, not that the little shit deserved it. We walked there, passing an employee break room shared by the bar and restaurant employees along the way.

  My ex Dana winked at me from inside. I ignored her and flicked a piece of lint from my suit lapel. As soon as we entered my office, Gio locked the door. Never a good sign. Fuck me. I was too buzzed for a serious conversation rig
ht now.

  I didn’t normally turn to alcohol to chase my demons—not even after Gio had betrayed my trust eight years ago—but I wasn't scheduled for work today and Asher, who I would usually be hanging out with right now, had a fiancée who monopolized most of his time. Don’t get me wrong. I love Lucy like a sister, but times like this reminded me of just how lonely I was.

  Loneliness your dad is responsible for, the unforgiving part of my brain never let me forget. Loneliness Everett probably feels, too.

  I swallowed and sat down at my desk, not bothering to offer a seat up to Gio. He'd take it if he wanted to. That was the type of men we were. Takers. We only gave when it came to the family, and even then, the number of people who shared the Romano name or—like Asher, Lucy, and our current fixer Niccolaio—had worked their way into the heart of this family was slim.

  “We need to talk business.”

  “My business or yours?”

  One of his cufflinks fell to the floor. He kicked it under my desk, removed the remaining one, and tossed it in the trash like it hadn’t cost a month’s worth of rent in Greenwich. “Ours.”

  Translation: Romano business. Translation of translation: nothing I cared to delve into. I bit back a curse. I went to L’Oscurità to get away from the mafia business, not to have Gio throw it in my face every chance he got. At any given moment, at least a dozen mafia contacts or members wined and dined inside the building, but the actual revenue L’Oscurità made was a hundred percent legitimate.

  Gio ignored my irritation. “Your Uncle Frankie’s caught wind of a rat in our midst.”

  I laughed away my disbelief. “No kidding? You see anyone suicidal lately?”

  “This isn’t a joke. Our man in the bureau confirmed this.”

  And our FBI informants never made mistakes.

  “Shit.” The curse hissed past my lips, and rightfully so. By nature, a delicate ecosystem tethered the family business together, and even the slightest tremors could disrupt it. “Why tell me this?”