Page 92 of Fake Dark Vows
She smiles then, and her shoulders slump, but I can tell I haven’t smoothed out her concerns.
“Why don’t you go home and see your dad?” I suggest. “I’ll get the driver to bring the car back for you. You must have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Okay,” she says without conviction. “Do I… Do you want me to take the ring off?”
“I want you to do whatever you think is right, Rose.” She refuses to meet my eyes, her gaze fixated on the hand-woven rug between the couches, and I quickly add, “No, I don’t want you to take the ring off.”
This must be the right thing to say—her face brightens, she stands on tiptoes, and kisses my cheek. “Goodbye, Brandon.”
I catch her wrist before she can walk away. “You’re coming back, Rose. Aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m coming back, Brandon.”
She smiles, but it isn’t the same smile I saw in Vegas. It isn’t the smile of a woman who knows all the words to every Rod Stewart song ever recorded. It isn’t the smile of a woman who just fucked her man in the shower and drank mimosas on the terrace.
I watch her leave, and I don’t try to stop her despite the uneasiness settling in my stomach. Why did it feel like goodbye? Am I being oversensitive because I still don’t know how she feels or is it because I haven’t expressed how I feel about the whole situation?
In the morning, I’ll send her flowers. Roses. Hundreds of them. Then maybe she’ll start to understand.
I shut myself in my study with a bottle of brandy and a glass.
I lose track of time searching the Internet for Carlos Russo. There’s no mention of him on social media. The tabloids still refer to him on the financial pages, but despite numerous searches, there are no recent images.
Locating his sons and nephews isn’t quite as difficult. His sons Emilio and Luca have their own social media accounts and have posted images of themselves with their wives at social functions as recently as two days ago. His nephews Davide, Enzo, and Angelo have also been in the public eye, with media coverage of Davide’s baby daughter’s baptism, and business enterprises that have benefited the local community. There’s even an image of Enzo shaking hands with the mayor of New York City.
A third of the way through the bottle of brandy, I’m starting to believe that Carlos Russo is no longer alive. I don’t know if he’s sick, or if he took a very personal, very private early retirement back in his home country, but what I don’t understand is why the family is covering it up.
It’s one thing to keep his withdrawal from the family business hush-hush, but quite another to pretend like he’s still very much active.
And no matter which angle I attack this from, I still have no idea where I figure in their plans.
It’s obvious that Wren was an implant. As much as I don’t want to believe that Julia was involved—I can’t overlook the phone call in Vegas—the likeliest outcome is that they were using her to drip-feed information from Weiss Petroleum to them via her sister. It’s easy to apply pressure when you understand a person’s weakness, and everyone has their Achilles heel.
Then there was my father’s mention of a house by a lake. Coincidence? I understand that this connection is probably my mind’s way of searching for a casual reference and attaching a higher level of importance to it than is necessary. But it came out of the blue. It even took my mom by surprise for fuck’s sake.
My previous search history takes me back to the story of American Falls, and I read again about the city built in the original reservoir. The top of the cement grain silo can still be seen above the water in the reservoir—too large and too heavy to move; it was left behind when the townsfolk evacuated.
It’s an interesting story, but I adjust my search to include American Falls real estate, and almost choke on a mouthful of brandy when a familiar name catches my attention. Carlos Russo—as suggested by Sam—owns some listed properties in the area including the old power station. But it isn’t this name that leaves the brandy turning sour on my tongue.
Somewhere in the small print of real estate sales during the past twelve months, the name Harry Weiss flashes off the screen like a neon sign.
I keep scrolling until I find what I’m looking for: the property my father bought is the dilapidated house on the lake that the cab driver said belonged to Carlos Russo. I search further for the completion date and find that it was a little over three months ago. Shortly after Ron Valentine approached me to bail him out of his financial difficulties.
I pour another shot of brandy and sit back in my seat.
What’s the connection?
I’ve known Ron all my life, and I don’t think it’s a family connection, so what am I missing?
Why didn’t Ron approach Carlos Russo for help, if their connection is that strong? Or my father? Why approach me, unless he believed that I would help him discreetly? Was this all about pride? Was he too proud to tell his oldest friend that he was experiencing financial problems?
I sip my brandy and try to put myself in my father’s shoes.
He was ruthless when it came to business. I’d seen him outmaneuver his adversaries in the boardroom on many occasions. When Harry Weiss set his mind to taking someone down for a professional sleight—real or imagined—there was no escape route. He had a better grasp of the mechanics of business law than most solicitors I’d worked with since taking over Weiss Petroleum and knew how to manipulate it to his advantage.
But he was also unflinchingly loyal to his friends. Ron Valentine included.
My father never forgot a favor. He repaid his debts with interest and remembered every person who’d played a part in his rise to success, no matter how small. He would never have judged Ron for his failures, and Ron must know this.