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Brutal Hearts

Page 107

by Kathy Asher

This feels like finding an oasis in the desert.

“He documented his own masterpiece.” Nico’s voice is flat. “He couldn’t resist proving to himself that he pulled it off.”

As Nico reads over my shoulder, his breath hitches. “Marco, this clears you of every charge and proves you were set up. With this, you could show the world that you were never a cheat.”

The room spins around me. Years of shame, of carrying a disgrace that wasn’t mine coalesce into an emotion I have no name for. Bruno’s manipulation caused my downfall. He set up this long game to feed his need to control and destroy. The pages tremble in my hand as I flip through everything once more to ensure my eyes aren’t deceiving me.

Rocco discovers more. I’m not the only one. Bruno kept records of payments, communications with officials, and other evidence that he’s been executing this scam for decades and destroying fighters who refused to play his games.

Beneath all of it are the ledgers. He tracked organ procurement by blood type and market value, shipping routes between Naples and Newark, and client lists with payments tallying into the millions.

The kickboxing training was Bruno’s first empire. The organ harvesting was his second. He’s been managing both for over a decade.

By the time we finish cataloguing, I have enough evidence to not only clear my name but to dismantle the trafficking network and put him away for the rest of his life.

Nico claps me on the shoulder, his grip warm and solid. “We got him. Not physically, but we got him. You’re free, my friend, if you want to be.”

Staring at the folder in my hands, a sense of vindication spreads through me. Finally, I can dream of a future that won’t carry the stain of my past.

“We need to move.” Carefully, I tuck the documents into my jacket, close to my heart. “Bruno’s still out there, but now we at least know where to look.”

We sweep the rest of the farmhouse, gathering evidence and securing the scene. By the time we’re finished, dawn lightens the sky, gray bleeding into gold at the horizon.

I hurry toward the vehicles, anxious to get back to my wife.

Chapter 31

Lucia

I wake to sunlight filtering through the curtains and pooling across sheets that smell of him, of me, and of the particular warmth that comes from two bodies sleeping intertwined.

Then I realize I’m alone, and a chill settles in my chest.

He said he’d be back before I woke. If he’s not here now, what does it mean?

I’m just sitting up when the smell hits me—rich, dark coffee, smoky bacon, and the sweetness of pastry—and my stomach rumbles with an appetite I haven’t felt in weeks.

Before I can jump off the bed, a shadow spills across the doorway. Marco Santori leans against the frame with a tray balanced in his hands. He watches me with that expression I’m still learning, his eyes soft and tender, a gentleness I never thought I’d see on the face of a man carved by violence.

“Good morning, Mrs. Santori.”

Hearing the title makes my face bloom into a smile I can’t hold back. My voice comes out hoarse and sleep-rough. “You actually made breakfast.”

“I’m a man of many talents.” He crosses over to the bed and sets the tray across my lap with a ridiculous but earnest flourish. “Eat. You’ve been skipping meals again.”

I look at the spread—pancakes stacked high, crispy bacon, fresh fruit arranged in careful patterns, coffee steaming in my chipped mug—and a sharp prickle stings my eyes.

“You didn’t have to cook for me.”

He sits beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh presses against mine. “I wanted to make you breakfast on our first morning as husband and wife. Is that allowed? Am I breaking some rule?”

I laugh, the noise real and unguarded. “I think it’s required. Loving, cherishing, and feeding each other pancakes is in the marriage fine print.”

“Then I’m exceeding expectations.” He winks as he reaches forward and steals a strawberry from my plate, moving his hand away before I can catch him.

“I thought the breakfast was for me?”

He grins, his teeth sinking into the fruit and spreading juice on his lips. He eats like a man with no audience, and the simplicity of it wins me over.