Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“I know. But I didn’t.” I sigh. “It doesn’t matter now. I won’t see him ever again anyway.”

“Thank God!” Zara shakes her head and moves to the dresser.

She kneels on the floor and starts rummaging through a stack of colorful fabrics piled up on the right side. There is another stack on the left, but it contains all the neutral colors—beige, white, brown, and black. No vibrant shades, no patternswhatsoever. These are the fabrics she uses to make clothes for herself.

“Do you have enough of that lavender to make something for you, too?” I ask. “We could go in matching outfits, like we used to when we were kids.”

Zara looks down at the big folded bundle of fabric on her lap and lovingly strokes the pinkish-purple silk with the tips of her fingers. She would look lovely in that color, especially in one of the designs I saw strewn on the floor—a magnificent evening gown with an off-the-shoulder V-neckline and a high slit along the leg.

“No,” she whispers and approaches me, holding the fabric in her arms.

She drapes the pretty material around my waist to see how it would flow, then checks her sketch, and, while I watch my talented sister, my heart breaks for her for the thousandth time. I wish she would see herself as I do—beautiful, inside and out—and wear one of the astonishing dresses she loves creating so much instead of just making them for me and our friends.

“How are things here, at home?”

“Same,” she says while scribing the numbers on her notepad. “Batista Leone came over the other day, and he and Dad spent almost three hours in Dad’s office.”

That’s nothing new. As Dad’s underboss, Leone spends quite a bit of time at our house. He was also the previous don’s underboss. I heard that he expected to take over the Boston Family when the old don died. However, during the meeting where the capos and the biggest business investors gathered to discuss succession, my father was voted in as the next don. It was at that same meeting that the marriage between my father and the previous don’s widow, Laura, was arranged. Elmo wassixteen, I was three, and Zara was barely a year old when our new mother arrived at our home. Massimo, Laura and the late don’s son, was eighteen when he became our stepbrother.

“Do you think Dad let Batista remain as his underboss because he felt bad that the don’s position was basically stolen from him?” I ask.

“Maybe. Dad was never cut out to be a don, and he knows it.”

“What?”

“Um . . . I mean, he enjoys being the center of attention and having people reach out to him for advice, but his temperament isn’t one that befits a don.”

“What do you mean? He’s been handling things for the Family and maintaining perfect order for over fifteen years.”

“Yeah, it certainly seems that way,” she mumbles. “Do you want the zipper on the side, or back?”

I narrow my eyes at my sister, wondering what she meant with her cryptic comments. I could probe a bit more, but it wouldn’t do any good. When Zara decides a subject is closed, it’s the end of the discussion.

“On the back works for me,” I say.

Zara adds another note next to her sketch, then takes the lavender fabric from my hands and starts folding it. “I need you to promise me something, Nera.”

“What?”

“Should you ever run into that man you saved again, you’ll walk away.”

“He was just a random hot guy.” I shrug, pretending to be disinterested. “I helped him. He left. I don’t see how we would ever meet again.”

“That man knows where you work.”

“He’s probably already forgotten about me, Zara. Don’t worry.”

I deflect with a laugh, but the truth is, I’m secretly hoping to meet my long-haired stranger again.

A man in yellow shorts and a white T-shirt moves within the circle of my scope as I track him with my rifle. This entire park space is part of Mr. Jogger-Extraordinaire’s property and is heavily guarded. Someone on the inside provided Kruger with the guy’s daily schedule, but they didn’t have the code for the alarm on the gate. I had to scale the wall and sneak in during the guards’ shift change at midnight, and then I spent the night lying behind a shrub, waiting for my target.

The running man stops for a moment, stretches, then resumes his lap. I’ll never understand an urge to jog at five in the morning as a form of recreation.

During my basic training with the Z.E.R.O. unit, extensive physical fitness activities were held daily, missing them was out of the question. Running and other forms of cardio. Conditioning drills and weight lifting. Rope climbing. Sparring with other recruits in close-quarter combat, either bare-handed or with various blades. Four hours each day of honing our bodies, building agility and endurance, all so we could form themuscle memory we’d need to handle the strain of the field. The rest of our days were spent on military tactics and weapons training, including the fundamentals of a variety of handguns and rifles, throwing weapons, and also explosive devices and light artillery. That second part was meant to shape us into perfect killing machines. So, I understand the need to exercise the body when there is a specific aim behind it. I do not understand the urge to run for fun.

The jogger stays in my scope, but instead of focusing on my target, my mind drifts to that night last week. The girl. For what is probably the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours. Actually, if I’m honest with myself, since the moment I left the vet clinic, I’ve been constantly thinking about her. She offered to help me without any expectation of getting something in return. It puzzles me. I’ve been conditioned not to expect anything from anyone, so I can’t comprehend her actions.

I also can’t seem to get the image of her—all serious and sure of herself, with her tiny Sig P365 pressed to my chest—out of my mind. Young. Petite. But brave and determined. And too damn reckless. Just like a tiger cub.