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“He’s my brother.”
“I know,” he says gently. “This comes from him, not from me, and is for your own fucking good.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to resist the urge to slide right in close to him, to let the heat of his flesh warm me, his scent soothe me. “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“You’d fucking think so, but no.”
I push out a breath and look at him. “With everything today, there was something else.”
He shifts, eyes on me, waiting.
“This guy, lots of tattoos, came up to me and asked about the Lowlanders and said you were a De Luca.”
He doesn’t seem shocked or outraged or filled with a thousand questions, and that disconcerts me.
“That’s the family I work for,” he says. My mind goes back to the mafia thing.
Maybe I do know someone in the mafia after all. But if he’s Fallon’s friend, then?—
“Is Fallon mafia too?”
The blurted-out words hang there, and he drops his head to his hands a moment, shoulders shaking. When he sits up, there’s still an inkling of mirth at the edges of his mouth. “For fuck’s sake, Karlee. Think before you speak about certain things. But to answer that question, no, he isn’t. He'd be here if he could, but?—”
“Oh my God. He’s either dead or in prison, and you don’t speak like he’s dead. He’s in jail, isn’t he?”
“He warned me you were fucking smart.”
“Assholes, all of you.” I grab at Tizio, “Is he okay?”
He gets up and goes out to the kitchen. When he returns, he’s holding two glasses of amber liquid. “Bourbon, no ice. I forgot to fill the tray.”
“No smart fridge?”
“Just a dumb one.”
I take a sip of the sweetish liquid that sets a fire all the way to my gullet. “What did he do?”
He sighs and shifts, stretching his legs. “I saw the rap sheet, but what he actually did, I don’t know.”
“But—”
“Karlee, there are more fucking ways to end up serving time than the things you’re charged for. And I told you I don’t know. I think he’s trying to protect you and someone else.”
“So, that’s why I got attacked and you’re here.”
“Give the fucking kid a prize.”
“I’m not a fucking kid. And no one gets to scare me, no one. I haven’t done anything. And what do you do? I’m guessing mafia since you’ve got a lot of guns.”
“Are you asking if I’m a criminal?” He smiles. “That depends on your definition. But yeah, I work for one of the families. I’m an enforcer, but I used to work with your brother back in the day in security.”
I think about it. No shock or repulsion comes. Actually, I’m . . . fascinated. “So, do you put people in concrete shoes? I’m from New York, you can tell me.”
“Fuck.” He swallows half his drink and sets down the glass. “You lived there a few years.”
I nod. “The formative ones.”
“Not the same.”
