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“But your uncle told you only half the story.”
There was something snakelike in the way Wilson said the words, almost as if his tongue were flicking in and out. He savored the words, and Shane realized he’d savored a lot of the information he’d been dropping recently.
Behind that desiccated mask, Wilson was enjoying this.
Shane made himself still. “And the other half?”
“Torcelli told you that your parents died in a boating accident, correct?” Wilson’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, too little to notice unless you were watching for it.
Shane was watching for it. He nodded.
“Not true.” Wilson lifted his chin, watching Shane from under lizardlike eyelids. “They were murdered by Don Michael Fortunato.” Shane was perfectly still.
“Your father, the eldest brother, stood in Michael’s way, so he rigged their boat to explode. They went out on the water, and he blew it up by remote control from a nearby cruiser.” Wilson watched Shane.
Shane sat, unmoving.
“They say your father tried to save your mother even though he was horribly wounded.”
Shane looked past Wilson to the Blood, beautiful in the early morning.
“They say he screamed her name as he died.”
He was aware of the sound of the water lapping against the floating dock and the slight creak of metal on wood as it moved against the steel gangplank.
“They say she cried out yours.”
Shane turned back to Wilson. Look for what he wants.
Wilson was sitting, looking impassive, but that light was behind his eyes. “I believe she drowned, according to intelligence. There was no coroner’s report. The Don let the bodies go down with the boat.”
What does he want?
“You don’t believe me? Ask your uncle Joey. Or your uncle Frankie. They’ve known for years.”
Frankie and Joey at the table last night. Joey shaking his head. Shane felt heat now—it had been rising the entire time, filling his head, blanking out his brain, but now he could feel it—the old heat from when he’d been a kid, fists flailing. Don’t go there, that’s what Wilson wants, do not go there.
“The real question,” Wilson was saying, “is what do you intend to do about it? Because you have a job to do, Mr. Fortunato. One that does not allow for distraction because of personal issues. Can you still do your job and protect the Don?”
He sat back and allowed himself a small complacent smile.
Shane got up and began the long walk down the dock to Joey.
Agnes tipped a pan of pineapple-orange muffins out onto the counter, wiped her hands on her Cranky Agnes apron, and then stepped back beside Carpenter to look out the kitchen window toward the dock, where Shane was meeting with his boss. She felt a little ridiculous baking muffins in a cherry pink halter dress covered with a promo apron, until she saw the man she loved standing like the Grim Reaper, staring down the wizened old goat he worked for. Then she forgot the dress. There was something definitely wrong down on that dock.
“He said something about getting a better job.”
Carpenter nodded. “He’s in line for a promotion.”
Agnes’s heart sank. So much for hoping for a new line of work. “So that would be good?”
Carpenter turned his head and looked down at her. “Not for Shane. Shane has been finding his way to the light this week.”
“Oh, hell,” Agnes said, watching Shane stride back from the dock. He looked tense. As he got closer, she realized that was too tame a description: He looked white with rage, something she’d never seen before.
Carpenter went rigid beside her, as if he, too, knew something was very wrong, beyond the kind of wrong he’d seen before.
Lisa Livia ambled into the kitchen in her pink halter dress and said, “What’s new?” She threw an arm around Carpenter’s waist and then stopped smiling to look up at him. “What?”
