Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“No.”

“He has the right to know.”

“As you said, if he bothered to call, he would have known.”

I’ll let him believe what everyone else believes—that Lucia is Batista’s daughter. With her light-brown hair and pouty lips, she looks like a tiny version of me. Except for her eyes.

Zara wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Did he tell you why he left without a word?”

“He didn’t.”

“And you have no idea what the reason could be?”

I close my eyes and bite my cheek, instantly tasting the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

“No,” I lie.

Several rapid gunshots ring out outside. I flinch, my eyes snapping open. Below, on the lawn, Kai is putting away his gun. My gaze flicks to the line of security staff, spotting three of the men slumped on the ground, their heads aren’t as intact as they used to be. I grab the handle on the window pane, pushing it open, just as Kai steps toward the men.

“These three were on guard duty last night when the premises were compromised.” Kai’s deep voice reaches me. “From now on, if a fucking squirrel breaches the perimeter without being neutralized, I’ll kill each man working that shift. Is that clear?”

The security team gapes at him dumbfounded, then nods in unison.

“You’re dismissed.” Kai turns around and heads toward the driveway. Several cars are spaced around the area, and a man walks among them, inspecting the underside of each vehicle with a strange-looking tool. Is he searching for an explosive device?

I watch as Kai takes the tool from the man and continues to inspect the cars himself, taking his time with every vehicle. It feels strange to think of him as anything other than “my demon,” but I like his name.

When he’s done inspecting the last of the cars, he throws the mirror-on-a-stick thing back to the guy and heads off toward the gate, where the new surveillance equipment is being installed.

“I’m gonna check on Lucia.” I leave my sister to her snooping at the window and trudge across the large living room.

Being the don’s wife, I was expected to live with my husband, but when I arrived at Batista’s home, I made it very clear I had no intention of sharing my living space with him. At the time, he was already having difficulties climbing the stairs,thus, he mostly used the ground floor where his office and other business rooms were located. I, therefore, claimed the second level, which consisted of two sets of suites—one for myself and one for Zara. She took the smaller one, which faces the backyard, and I ended up with the spacious three-bedroom apartment that I had remodeled to my tastes.

I head into my bedroom, where Lucia is having her afternoon rest. She usually naps in her own room, but when she dozed off in my bed after lunch, I didn’t want to chance waking her.

As I pass by the open-concept kitchen on my left, my eyes catch on a bunch of colorful magnets hanging on the fridge. Lucia likes to play with them—a lot—so some are chipped or had to be glued together. I make a detour and stop in front of the mosaic of souvenirs. They seem completely out of place in the contemporary, white kitchen. My fingers brush over the magnet with a picture of a bridge, a long diagonal crack mars the middle of it, and a sad smile pulls at my lips. It’s the onehebrought me. The night of the ill-fated party, I wanted to move it to the central spot, but the magnet fell out of my hand. Looking back on that moment, now it seems like it was some kind of omen.

“I want the surveillance feeds to stream to the guardhouse, the main computer in the office on the ground floor, and mylaptop,” I tell the security specialist who’s fumbling with the main alarm box on the wall. “Make sure there’s no lag.”

“Um . . . I don’t think that is necessary, sir. All footage will be transmitted to our headquarters, and we have a team who will monitor it twenty-four seven.”

I take a menacing step toward him and pin him with my gaze.

“Of course.” The man backs away two paces. “No problem at all.”

I nod and head to my car, parked on the driveway at some distance from the other vehicles. The case with my sniper rifle is on the back seat, so I take that out first, then open the trunk. Two big sports bags holding my extra weapons are on the right side of the cargo space, but I decide to leave them for now and only grab the duffle bag with my clothes.

A short man in a penguin-looking outfit approached me earlier, letting me know that my room was ready, and I could find it on the first floor of the staff building. I look over my shoulder toward the structure in question. It’s located nearly two hundred feet from the main house. Not happening. Knowing I have another type of “battle” on my hands, I leave my sniper case inside the trunk and head to the front door of Leone Villa.

In the entry hall, a maid is busy cleaning the glass doors leading to the office. When she notices me, she throws her rag on the floor, then hightails it out of there. Must have been the lucky one who had to clean the blood in the meeting room.

As I climb the stairs to the second level, I take in my surroundings, registering the details I missed when I scouted the house this morning. The walls are covered in wainscoting. Oil paintings in oversized ornate frames. An enormous vintage grandfather clock. A crystal chandelier and matching sconceson the walls. It looks like a museum. It even smells like one. Nothing about this joint is remotely similar to my cub’s rooms upstairs. Her space is all modern, like her apartment long ago. She even still has her garden weeds, all lined up in pots along the walls and windows.

There are two doors off the landing. The one on the right leads to a separate unit. I used the balcony of that one to get inside last night, after I took care of the hitman on the roof. The double door in front of me leads to Nera’s suite. I grab the knob and step inside.

Nera is standing by the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the dining area, a mixture of confusion and alarm written all over her face. A yellow heart-shaped bowl, partially filled with cut-up pieces of oranges and apples, sits on the marble counter before her. Half of an apple is lying on a cutting board.

“What are you doing here?”