“You killed him! He drowned in his own blood. I saw him, uncle. He suffered.”
“No!” Gioulio wiped his tears and held a finger up like steel. “I made it painless. The stuff I gave him did the job instantly. He never knew what hit him. He died blasted out of his damned skull, a high like none of us will ever know. And thank God we won't!”
Every part of me was shaking except the hand I had around the blade. That was cold, eager to kill, if only I weren't having my brains blasted out my ears by this horrible revelation.
Anton was right. He must've been right about everything.
But then, why did my uncle deny serving the twisted freaks at the club when he admitted to killing my own father? It didn't make sense. Or else Gioulio was playing one big fat mind game designed to make me clay in his hands. My heart was falling to pieces finding out Uncle Gioulio was this filthy, this damaged, this tormented. And I didn't even know how bad it truly was.
Who else was lying to me? If the men at Club Duce hadn't been demons torturing girls for their pleasure...then Anton was dirty too. He'd lied to me and gotten lucky about my uncle killing papa. He'd used me, wanted me to take the blade and kill my uncle in a fit of rage.
Fuck me.
I wanted to end it all right there. The urge to fall on him, tear out his throat, and then turn the knife on myself was overwhelming me. I held the knife out several times when he looked like he was about to come closer, warning him away.
“Don't.” It was the only word I could manage, and it came out so hateful my mouth tasted like I'd bit into a strong pepper.
“Brina, please. You're fucking killing me. Either slit my throat and finish this, or else find some way to forgive me. I was gonna come clean, you know. I just didn't think it would have to be like this.” He sighed sadly. “There's too much at stake. You're young. I kept you away from all this, and now the underworld's hurting you, bursting through my shield. You can't see through their lies the way I do.”
God help me. My burning wrist made the decision for me. I let go. The switchblade dropped and rattled on the floor, and my fingers came off it like it was hot iron. The clatter on the ceramic tile drilled through the silence.
“The Ivankovs are never honest,” my uncle growled, stepping up, jerking me into his embrace. This time, I didn't resist. “Remember that. I'm telling you the ugly truth. All of it.”
His wrinkled fingers pushed their way through my hair. For some sick reason, it reminded me of Anton, and then I completely broke. I bawled like a baby, splashing his expensive suit with tears.
His confession about killing papa repulsed me. I should've jumped away and scratched him in the face if I didn't have the courage to slaughter him for what he'd done. But I was too weak, too utterly lost in his torturous confession.
Whatever plan there'd been when I came here, it was in total ruins now. I'd never see Anton Ivankov again. And I didn't know whether I ought to miss the bastard or not. I wasn't sure if he'd screwed me over just as bad as my asshole uncle.
Damn it. This whole fucking thing was supposed to bring clarity. Now, I was just drowning in confusion, burning every last bridge I ever had to the men I loved.
“You want the truth?” Uncle Gioulio whispered, giving my wavy hair another pull. “I can give you the rest. I put Gio out of his misery, and I deserve to burn for it. I know that. But I'm not the one who destroyed him. I know who killed your mama, little lamb.”
My eyes burned harder. I turned my head up, hating him for offering another twisted truth.
God. Everything they said about honesty was a wretched lie, wasn't it? The truth never set anyone free. It condemned them to the darkest pits of hell, and whatever he was going to tell me offered no illusions about anything else.
“Marino! Gabriele!” He clapped his hands, calling to the guards. “Leave us. This talk's for family ears only.”
Still holding me, Uncle Gioulio walked. We left the room with the blade still lying on the ground. The guards didn't follow, a first for any time I'd been in my uncle's presence. We headed downstairs through the concealed kitchen entrance, down past the wine cellar where we'd always stopped before.
There was a small, unfinished room next to the laundry I'd never seen before. He fished out a key and opened the door. Dust wafted up my nose and I sneezed, then did a double take when I saw the walls lined with filing cabinets.
My uncle motioned me over to the tiny desk with two chairs in the middle. As soon as I sat, he opened up a drawer and rifled through it until he found what he was searching for – a simple manilla folder like something you'd see stored in an old clinic.