White Knight (Dirty Mafia Duet, #2)(22)

He winks at my calling him by his silly, and totally bullshit, self-declared middle name, and straightens with his hands on his hips like a superhero. How can one man be so strong and powerful, and yet still playful enough to make all the crazy disappear—if only for a second?

His eyes still shining, he says, “I’ll call Geno and get us set up. Use the coffee table in the living room so you have more space to spread it all out.” On the way out of his room, he casually kisses my neck as I stretch, knowing it’s going to be another long night digging through skeleton-filled closets.

While Cannon runs downstairs to get the manicotti, I sit on the sofa in front of the square coffee table and open the file. Picture after picture of Dom Casso greet me, but my reaction to them has changed. Seeing Dom’s face used to fill me with hate and vengeance because it reminded me of loss and pain, but now it’s different. Now his face reminds me of someone I love.

When Cannon returns with the food, he sets it on the counter and waves me over to get some. While I go to town serving myself from the oversized container of delicious ricotta-filled pasta, he stands over the coffee table and stares down at the pictures.

“Jesus Christ. No wonder you had no choice but to find out why the hell your dad had all these pictures.” He glances over his shoulder at me before turning back to point at one I can’t see from where I’m standing. “These go back to when I was a kid. He had to have gotten them from FBI files and who knows where else.”

Cannon picks up a picture, and I snatch up a napkin and bring my plate with me as I come closer to see which one he’s looking at.

I chew and swallow a mouthful, surprised at how hungry I was. “I never could figure out who that guy was. There was only that one picture of him and Dom.”

“Benny Romano. He retired and moved to Boca.”

Cannon sounds like he knows Benny well. I feel a little awkward, not sure if I should be asking questions about these guys, and if I do, whether he’ll even answer. But Cannon keeps talking without needing to be prompted, and I finish the rest of my plate.

“Believe it or not, he babysat me when my mom went out on the town with Dom. You’ll meet him at Dom’s birthday party.”

“Dom’s what?” The mention of a party throws me off for a second.

“You’re going with me, so don’t argue.”

I’m wise enough to pick my battles, so I drop it and ask about the harmless-looking older man I hadn’t been able to identify before. “Was he one of Dom’s main guys?”

Cannon’s chiseled jaw cuts to me. “What are you going to do with the information I give you? Because I’m going to tell you right now that I’m not going to help you take down a single member of the Casso organization unless you have undeniable evidence they were involved with your father’s death.”

I press my lips together and try to figure out the answer to that question. “You’re really sure Dom had nothing to do with it?”

“One hundred percent.” His deep voice is resolute and sure.

“And no one else in the Casso family?”

“All I can tell you is that I can’t think of a single reason why Dom or anyone under him would’ve given a single thought to a retired reporter, even if he was snooping around or making a scrapbook of Dom’s life. You have to remember that no DA has ever been able to get a conviction on Dom.”

My stomach twists because that’s not the response I wanted. “I need to know for sure, Cannon.”

He jerks away from me, his gaze turning hard, like when he was still a stranger to me, as it drills into mine. “So you what? Want to go ask Dom to tell you either way? You think that’s a good fucking idea?” Cannon’s defensive, but even if he’s had issues with Dom his whole life, Dom’s still his family and that will never change.

“How else am I ever going to know the truth? I need to know what really happened.”

After the last few days of constant stress, the bullshit with my mother, my disguise coming off, and then my apartment getting broken into, I’m losing my ability to keep it together and think rationally. Usually I can compartmentalize, but there are so many things up in the air, so many pieces in play. And for once, I can’t lock myself down.

Why did I think showing him this file was a good idea? That he would actually tell me anything? Stupid, Memphis. Stupid.

My hands trembling, I scramble to gather the photos and shove them back in the file, shifting into fight-or-flight mode and choosing flight because I feel like I’m about to break and that’s not something I want anyone to witness. Not even the man I’m in love with.

I just have to hold it together until I’m out of his sight.

“What? Now you don’t want to look at them because I’m not going to spill info that you can take to the cops? Info that could take down people I care about—people who may not have done a damn thing to you or your father?”

“I just . . . I can’t . . .” I’m stammering with my back to him, praying he won’t see how badly I’m clutching at my shredding self-possession. Even my mantra can’t touch this.

“You got a better idea of how to deal with this? You think you’re going to figure it out without me?”

With my stockpile of photos, articles, and notes, I rush to the counter where my purse is waiting and grab it. I don’t know what else to do.