Page 84 of Dishonored

“I will need a couple of days,” he told his father.

Angelo nodded. “Under—”

The bitter, drunken laughter coming from the French doors leading out to the back deck stopped Angelo from saying more. Caesar was surprised to find Daniele had actually moved from his spot in the chair where he’d stayed for most of the day, not to mention, that he’d moved just to come spy on them.

“You’re going to forgive him?” Daniele spat out, half-stumbling out the doors, yet managing to right himself at the last second before he fell on his face. He pointed his glass—full again with whiskey—at Caesar, and didn’t seem to notice he spilled a quarter of it in the jerky action. “After everything he’s done to us—to you—you’re going to pretend again like it didn’t even happen?”

“Daniele—”

Angelo’s words were again cut off by Daniele’s laughter.

“You’re still trying to protect him, Dad. You’re still fucking saving his worthless ass. And he doesn’t even give a single fuck about you or the rest of us!”

Well, his half-brother was right about that.

Daniele’s drunken gaze fell on Caesar as he mumbled, “I guess maybe he does give a shit about you, Dad. Your wife is the only one he hasn’t fucked, right?”

Caesar stiffened—liquor loosened lips, and sunk fucking ships.

In more ways than one …

His brother shook his head, and then turned before he stumbled back into the house. The deck was silent, and the problem was gone. Yet, Caesar still couldn’t relax, and his father hadn’t said a word. In fact, Angelo didn’t react at all.

He was cold.

Even as he looked back to Caesar.

It made him look at his father again.

Considering again …

“Seems you have something to handle now with the De Rose woman,” his father said.

That was it.

Nothing else.

Did Angelo know?

Could he?

Not possible, Caesar told himself.

It just wasn’t possible.

“And I think it best you stay away from your brother until he’s … beyond this stage in his grief,” Angelo added before he pushed out of the chair.

Huh.

A bit—or a lot—of money went a long way.

A few thousand dollars into the pocket of an eighteen-year-old who Caesar trusted to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut while he did it, and it didn’t matter that he was unable to follow Aria around and keep tabs on her whereabouts. He had someone else to do it for him.

“Guy didn’t even really try to hide where they were going,” Cason said as he chewed on his ever-present toothpick. “I don’t know how you’re going to get into her room, or—”

Caesar pulled a roll of bills out of his jacket pocket, and handed it over to the kid—the rest of his payment for doing relatively decent and providing information, too. “That’s for me to figure out. Is that where she is right now?”

“Dinner in the dining room with the guy—Nico?”