“And you swear it wasn’t you?”
Papa nods once. “I swear it, although I shouldn’t have to swear anything to you, daughter of mine. I would not have risked my son to something like that and you know it.”
I believe him. Despite everything, Papa loved us, he loved Manuel, and his heart still bleeds for what’s lost.
“Then who would’ve done something like that?” I ask quietly, not understanding. “The Russian?”
“If it was Boris, I doubt he would’ve put himself in harm’s way.” Papa sits down, practically folding himself into his chair. “No, daughter, I’ve thought about his long and hard. I’ve looked at it from all angles. I even sent men to ask around to try to find who planted the weapon. But there is nobody. I don’t understand who would benefit. Perhaps someone in the Bruno Famiglia didn’t want peace, but I found no evidence of that. I can tell you nobody in the Cuevas cartel wanted the war to continue. We were losing too many sons and brothers and friends for anyone to have that kind of appetite for more blood.” Papa shakes his head and puts his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I don’t have answers for you.”
I sit back and look at the ceiling, at the cold stone and the exposed wooden crossbeams. I breathe the smell of my papa’s study, of the old books and older paintings, of the rugs and the fireplace ash, and try to picture playing with Manuel in this very spot when we were still little. The memory feels so fresh and so painful.
Papa’s right. Nobody in the Bruno Famiglia would’ve planted that bomb, unless it was someone from before my time, someone that’s not in power anymore. And even that I find hard to believe.
There’s only one person that doesn’t fit into this story.
I can account for Casso. I can account for myself and for Manuel and for my father and for Don Bruno.
But Danil Federov still doesn’t make sense.
There’s no explanation for him, at least one that would explain why he’s back and why he’s acting like he wants his father’s old club or why he’s warning me away from Casso.
Unless this is all for revenge.
The third person that died in the car bomb back then was Danil’s father. And it’s entirely possible that Danil blames either Papa or Don Bruno for planting the device, despite obvious evidence otherwise. But that only points toward his motive, and doesn’t help me solve the riddle.
I drink the coffee and sit in silence with Papa for several long heartbeats.
“Are they going to be angry?” he asks softly. His aggression and rage are gone now, like a deflated balloon.
“Casso will be hurt. I hope once I explain why I had to come, he’ll understand, but I don’t know. Did you hear about Fynn?”
Papa nods gratefully. “Very ugly business.”
“We think it was Boris Federov’s son, Danil Federov. Casso’s been having trouble with a bratva Danil started, and we think he’s been systematically targeting the Bruno Famiglia.”
Papa strokes his face thoughtfully. “I know that I didn’t plant that car bomb. And I can say with some certainty that it wasn’t Don Bruno. But Boris Federov? I don’t know what that man thought.”
All at once my exhaustion hits me like kick to the teeth. I sigh and tug at my hair anxiously as the weight of this trip and the inevitable fallout sits on my shoulders, threatening to crush me. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes for a moment. I came all this way and I don’t feel like I have the answers I need. It’s good to rule out my father, but I still feel like I’m left grasping for the truth, like it’s inches away and mocking me.
“Can I stay here for the night?” I ask when I open my eyes again. “I’ll leave in the morning and head back to Phoenix.”
“You’re more than welcome, but you need to call your husband. He needs to know you are here and you are safe. Do this for me.”
“I understand,” I say, too tired to fight. “You have to preserve the alliance. I’ll call him.”
Papa’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I know this is hard on you. I know you feel as though you don’t have any control or power, but believe me, Olivia, you are strong. You can do more than you realize.”
I smile sadly and shake my head. “I don’t know if that’s true.”
“I know it. You’ll see eventually.” Papa waves a hand. “Go on, rest while you can. In the morning, you’ll head back to your husband.”
“Thank you, Papa.” I stand and step away. “And thank you for telling me the truth.”
“It’s an ugly story.” Papa looks at his gnarled, knotted palms, rotted with scar tissue. “I never wanted you to know my shame, Olivia. Your brother died in my place and I have never forgotten that. I don’t sleep at night without dreaming of the life that boy lost because I was too weak and sick to go to that meeting in his place. And no, please, don’t try to argue with me, I know all the arguments already, I’ve burned them into my heart and they will always be with me. I’ve made my peace, but I will never forget.”