I supposed the answer to that last question was whether I could live with myself if I let Benson kill Catalina just for trying to do the right thing.
And the answer was a resounding no.
But the irony of the situation didn’t escape me either. Silvio was doing what I usually did—getting to the point of the matter—while I stood on the sidelines, trying to keep everyone safe, including myself. I’d never considered myself to be a coward, but that’s what I was being when it came to Benson. Cowardly—or at least too concerned with my own problems to help the person who needed it the most, Catalina.
“Well, Ms. Blanco?” Silvio asked. “Do we have a deal?”
Instead of answering his question, I asked a few of my own. “Why come to me at all? Why not persuade Catalina not to testify? Surely, that would be the easier option. Cheaper too.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried.” Silvio huffed. “I’ve spent all damn day trying, ever since Benson got the call this morning that there was a witness. The second I heard that, I knew it was Catalina. Like you said, I’d seen the two of you there, and you certainly weren’t going to testify.”
I raised my knife to my heart. “Oh, Silvio, you wound me with your lack of faith. I actually do like to do my public duty from time to time.”
He barked out a laugh. “I just bet you do. Probably about as much as I do.” He laughed again, the sound even more caustic than before. “And now Troy has gotten her in trouble again. I never did like that little punk.”
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? Considering who you work for and all the nasty things you’ve done for him.”
“Bah.” Silvio waved his hand, shooing away my words, and started pacing back and forth across the porch. “Even if it wasn’t Troy, Catalina would still want to testify. Her mother raised her to be a good kid that way. Laura never liked what I did and who I worked for, just like you said.”
“So why do it? Why stay with Benson?”
He shrugged. “Because there weren’t any other options when Benson took over Southtown. It was join him or die. So I did what I had to do.” He stopped pacing to stare at me. “You should understand that, if nothing else.”
I looked down at my knife. Maybe it was the way the sun was gleaming off the blade, but for a moment, I was back in Southtown, back in that alley with Coral, clutching a broken beer bottle and staring at a man’s blood on my hand.
“Ms. Blanco?”
I shook off the memory and concentrated on Silvio again. Oh, I did understand it, more than he realized.
More than I wanted to.
“So you think asking me to kill Benson will make up for all the bad things you’ve done?”
He laughed again. “Of course not. I’ll pay for my sins, just like we all will in the end. But Catalina doesn’t deserve to die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And she especially doesn’t deserve what Benson will do to her. You saw what he did to Troy.”
“Hard to forget.”
“And he wasn’t even using the full extent of his Air magic last night.” A faint wince of concern creased Silvio’s face.
Air magic? So my theory was right, and Benson did have that elemental power mixed in with his own vampiric ability.
Silvio stared at me, the ice in his eyes melting into a desperate plea. “Please. Please kill Benson. Whatever your current asking price is, I’ll double it, triple it. And that’s not all. I’ll even help you, if you want. I’ve already started. See?” He gestured at the folder still on the rocking chair.
“Help? What sort of help?”
Silvio picked up the file, pulled a fat wad of papers and pictures out of it, and started showing them to me one by one. “Benson’s daily and weekly schedules, blueprints of his Southtown mansion, photos of the exterior grounds and every room inside the structure, the routes he takes to meet with his drug suppliers.” He hesitated. “I wasn’t sure exactly how you go about doing . . . what you do, so I thought it pertinent to include a wide range of material about all aspects of Benson’s life.”
“You could always do the job yourself,” I pointed out. “You’re his right-hand man. You’re close enough to kill him anytime you want to.”
“Believe me, I’ve dreamed of it many times,” Silvio murmured, slipping the papers and pictures back into the folder. “And if I thought that I could do it, then I would already be loading the gun. But Beau can sniff out the faintest hint of insurrection. It’s his Air magic, you see, it . . .”
“Gives him a bit of precognition,” I finished. “Yeah. I know.”
Silvio pinched the bridge of his nose the way that I’d seen his niece do at the restaurant after a particularly stressful shift. “Then you can see my predicament, Ms. Blanco. I can’t let him hurt Catalina, and I can’t kill him myself.”
“And maybe we should both trust my sister to do her job. Bria will do her best to protect Catalina. I can promise you that. She wants to take Benson down too badly not to.”
Silvio gave me a sad smile. “Catalina has told me many good things about your sister. How dedicated she is, how honest, how brave. But I think we both know that it won’t be enough. Not against someone like Benson.”
The image of Troy’s desiccated body filled my mind. The thought of Benson doing the same thing to Catalina, to Bria, turned my stomach. And I finally admitted to myself that my actions of the last two days had been nothing but stall tactics. I was tired of constantly fighting for my life—of all the blood and battles and bodies that just never seemed to end.
But I would never, ever get tired of protecting the people I loved.
So I stared into Silvio’s eyes and held out my hand, letting him see the poison promise glinting in my icy gray gaze.
He handed me the file without another word.
I hefted the folder in my hand. It felt even thicker and heavier than the ones in Fletcher’s office. Silvio appeared to have done his homework. I hoped his information would be as useful as the old man’s always was.
Silvio sucked in a breath and opened his mouth as if to thank me, but he thought better of it, and the air slowly hissed out between his teeth. Instead, he put his hand over his heart and bowed low to me—even lower than Benson had at Northern Aggression. But what surprised me the most was that there was no mockery in the gesture.
Then he straightened back up, nodded at me, stepped off the porch, and headed over to his car. He walked quickly, his shoulders high and tight, as if he expected me to dart forward and plunge my knife into his back at any second.