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“Hello, Dario,” Booker Watson said as my twin walked stiffly into view, trying desperately to hide his pain.
Dario blinked at the older man as if he thought he was dreaming. “Booker? Fiammetta’s friend?”
Book’s grin was wide and manic under his heavy gray handlebar mustache. “One and the same. Have a seat, boy, before you fall down and I gotta get up on my cracking knees to pull you to your feet.”
Dario’s gaze moved to mine, but I just jerked my chin to the overstuffed sofa in front of the fire, knowing the heat would feel good on his sore joints and various pains. He shuffled over, but sat straight, obviously uncomfortable with this surprise.
“How do you two know each other?” he pressed.
Booker laughed in that jovial, almost Santa Claus way he had and knocked his fist against my arm where I sat beside him in the matching chair. “I never meant to lie to Fia, but this secret—this friendship—predates our own. I’m responsible for teaching Lo Spettro most of what he knows.”
I scoffed. “Some of what I know, old man. He’s the preeminent authority on all things arms.”
“I should be, supplying most of the guns in the Midwest,” he boasted with a wide smile. “Lando brought me in to teach the boy when he was just fifteen. We’ve been friends ever since.”
I frowned, because I guessed that was true.
Until Fia, I hadn’t thought of myself in relationship to others unless they were family or targets. But Booker had been a constant in my life for decades, and whenever I’d needed advice, he’d been there without judgment.
“And Fia?” Dario asked, almost angry.
I raised a brow at him. “You think I was comfortable letting our wife live in this city without knowing how to handle herself and defend herself with a gun?”
“The dojo?” he mused, putting it together. “You know Akira too?”
I shook my head. “No, but I gave his father, Aoto, the money to start the business after he moved to America to tutor me.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dario muttered, rubbing an exhausted hand through his hair, wincing as he encountered sore spots. “You’re fucking crazy.”
I shrugged. “Anything to keep her safe. Akira has no idea I’m involved, he really loves her. And Book—”
“Love that girl like my own,” Booker declared proudly, puffing out his chest. “Never had a daughter, but figure I’d’ve had one like her.”
“You care about Luca and Fiammetta enough to house men running from the police for murder?” Dario clarified mildly.
He’d always been an untrusting bastard, but then, so was I.
It was the reason we didn’t have any of our own men at the house, not even Ciro or Cesare. I didn’t doubt either of them, but they had to act in our stead while Dario was “out of the country on business” until we could get a handle on things.
I trusted Luigi and Stefan, which was why they had been ordered to stay by Fia’s side no matter what.
Hence the need for Booker.
He shrugged as if he was entirely unbothered by the prospect of police. “The police don’t have any reason to suspect a connection between us. You think your brother would’ve brought you here if it weren’t that way?”
He slid me a disparaging glance.
“He probably has a concussion, and he was kept in a locked room for days,” I said by way of explanation.
Dario’s glower tightened so much that it must have hurt his swollen face. He knew he was being insulted.
“We’re being hunted too,” he pressed on. “And we don’t know by who.”
“This place is a fucking fortress,” Booker explained. “Didn’t I just mention I was a goddamn arms dealer? Relax, you’ll send yourself into an even earlier grave than you’re looking to be in if you keep stressing. Get some sleep, and we can worry about a plan of action tomorrow.”
“What are you two doing while I’m sleeping?” Dario asked suspiciously.
I almost laughed, but I knew it would only infuriate him, and I was too happy to have him back in my life alive and breathing to drag him anymore.
