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Yes, sir.
I have a defibrillator on standby.
“Good,” I mutter, a twisted smile dancing across my lips as I snatch a cigar from the humidor. There’s a mountain of business Clive and I still need to hash out. Which is why my instructions are clear: do what you want to the eyes, teeth, and ears. But for the love of God, save the tongue for last.
I light the cigar, drawing in a deep drag, fighting the urge to incinerate the damning photos in my hand.
The Scotsman decides to haunt me some more. “They’re evidence,” his whisper in my mind, drawing out the subtle, rolling r that’s his trademark.
“I. Am. Not. A. Cop,” I growl through clenched teeth, loud enough to reverberate across the empty room.
“You’ll never take down Andre without those,” his ghostly whisper taunts, firing me up on all cylinders.
I shoot from my seat, words spilling out in a fierce snarl. “What the fuck does that mean?” I snap, frustrated.
“So, we’ve finally cracked,” Dante interjects, his sudden presence whipping me around to face him.
I can’t gauge how long he’s been lurking there, witnessing me unraveling like a defective burrito, but I swiftly shove the images back into the folder and draw a sharp puff from my cigar. “I lost it ages ago, Dante,” I retort, my voice tight. I narrow my eyes. “Is there something you want?”
“I want to know what’s in the folder. Dory wouldn’t say a word.”
“That’s because she values her life.”
He strides across the room, yanking open the heavy silk drapes. “It’s freakin’ gorgeous out on the Italian shores. Why the hell are all the curtains closed?”
I suppress the urge to snap at him, my head throbbing like a jackhammer and sunlight feeling like a barrage of thumbtacks pelting the backs of my eyes. “I need to concentrate,” I grind out, the words strained and unconvincing.
“You need a swift kick in the ass if you think you’re gonna take on Uncle Andre solo,” he retorts, nodding towards the file on the desk. “Whatever that is, you can’t keep it under wraps forever.”
“I can try,” I mutter dryly.
His hand brushes his chin thoughtfully. “Knowing you, that pain in the base of your neck is agony by now—like an ice pick being slowly driven in. Probably, because you’re tiptoeing towards the edge of the worst decision of your life.”
“And what decision is that?” I ask, attempting to push past the pain he’s so astutely highlighted.
“You’re either going after Andre or something equally as idiotic. We don’t need a war,” Dante reminds me.
“That’s the thing about wars, Dante,” I counter. “No one ever needs them. They have them because if they take another ounce of shit, their back will break.” My phone pings. I glance at it and shake my head. “Speaking of shit.”
Dante simply raises a brow, then exhales a heavy sigh. “I know you came here with a girl. I know said girl is at the heart of some major issue between you and Andre. And I know that without my help, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”
I’m sleep-deprived, near exhausted, fueled by nothing but adrenaline and rage. I lack the strength to combat the relentless nagging of a D’Angelo brother hell-bent on the truth—Dante being the grandmaster of sniffing out skeletons.
He takes a step closer. “It stays between us, I swear.”
At this point, I’m in too much pain to keep sparring with my brother. He’s right. I need his help. So, I make the reckless decision to show him my phone.
He stares at the text from an unknown number, confused. “Six?”
“It’s the number of days I have left with said girl before I have to return her to Uncle Andre.”
“Why?” Dante’s brow furrows in confusion.
“Her worthless son of a bitch of a stepfather owes him, and vanished. So now she owes him,” I explain, preemptively raising a hand to ward off what he’s about to ask.
“So buy her debt.”
“You think I haven’t tried?”
