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“Looking good, J.” Tony strode up to her. She turned from the window. He wore a black tux. His dark hair brushed back, hazel eyes playful and amused.
“Right back at you.” She ran a hand down the front of his tux. “Planning on getting laid tonight?”
He grinned. “You offering?”
“Gross, Tone. We’re practically twins.”
He shook his head. “Last I checked, you’re an American Indian and I’m Italian.”
She cocked her head at him. Was he serious? Where had this come from? She leaned in close, smelled his breath. Vodka. “You drinking already?”
He took a step back. His shoes shuffled against the wood floor. He averted his eyes. “You see them?” He gestured out the window, then around the room, and toward the hall. He didn’t say feds, but she knew.
“Yep. They kind of stand out. But it’s to be expected.”
The attack had rattled the government and the locals.
She took a longer look around. Lights low, disco balls, streamers. And though most of the people in here were kids, both family and the children of guests, she spotted the outsiders easily. Stiff. Capable-looking. Dressed nice but not too nice. Muscular and thin, like they ate nothing but knowledge and worked out as a matter of survival.
These were the people she and Sandesh would have to fool. Not a problem. If there was one thing she could do well with Sandy, it was let sparks fly. Her insides fluttered.
The plan was for her to take the microphone in one of the outdoor tents and give her speech thanking everyone for coming. She’d say something embarrassing, slur her words as if drunk, mention how hot Sandesh looked, then drag him out to the dance floor. Yeehaw. She kind of liked the idea of being the center of attention that way.
But Sandy wouldn’t be here for a while. Ah, well. She’d have to entertain herself with Tony. “Okay, Brother, let’s show our siblings how it’s done.”
She grabbed his hand and threaded her fingers through his. He didn’t complain or pull back as she led him out of the gym, down the hallway, past the library, dining room, and entrance to the kitchen.
They exited through french doors held open by well-dressed servers, past a bartender bent over stacking crates, and the event coordinator aggressively speaking into a headset.
Outside, the air smelled of the numerous flowers that now decorated the patio.
Music played over speakers.
Stone clicked under her heels. Tony made some comment about her birthday present being a pony now that she was thirty and a big girl. She laughed as they descended the three-tiered stone patio.
“Shut up and keep up, old man,” she said as they walked down the walkway and through the garden maze to acres of open expanse, better known as the “bunting.”
She suspected the name had something to do with the numerous ceremonies held here that were often decorated with triangular flags.
Heaters ringed the area. It had warmed up this week, but the nights were still cool. Huge tents were set up on the bunting, one with a makeshift dance floor. They walked inside and stepped out onto the floor.
Lights were strung along the inside of the tall, circus-like tent. The beat of the music thrummed under their feet as they circled the dance floor. Some couples were already dancing.
Tony put a hand at her waist and drew her closer. He was warm. Even his smile was warm. He grinned from ear to ear. “J, remember when we’d play wedding when we were kids?”
She laughed. “Yeah, I remember.”
When Tony had first been adopted, she’d told him they were going to get married one day. She’d forced him to practice the wedding. He’d been an extremely patient twelve-year-old. He’d never complained or tried to reason her away from her delusions. It was Gracie, sharp as nails, who clued them into the harsh realities.
Justice increased the pitch of her voice, clipped her words like Gracie, and said, “You can’t get married. You’re related. Losers.”
They laughed. Tony pressed closer. “But we aren’t.” He looked away. “Not like Jules and Rome.” His voice lowered. “Or me and Leland.”
“What?”
Tony twirled her around, avoided her eyes. After a moment, he said, “Manipulative fucks.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Last year…”
His voice trailed off. His eyebrows drew together. He flicked his chin at something coming up behind her.
She spun, searched for what had caused him to freeze. Gracie. The redhead strolled across the dance floor. She wore a deep-red gown. Her hair and body might have been on fire as fast as she moved.
Justice’s heart leapt, skipped, and avoided the next beat. As if it could leap, skip, and avoid the truth. Something was wrong. Gracie was on the dance floor? She hated dancing. Hated touching people. She was headed right toward Justice and Tony.
Gooseflesh. Like someone had ghosted past her window, screamed in the night.
Tony sensed it too. His body tensed. “What the hell is she doing?”
Gracie neared.
“My turn,” Gracie said and swung herself at Tony. He was so shocked he nearly bobbled her.
His arms came up even as they released Justice.
Gracie laughed. She turned her head away from Justice but gave directions most definitely meant for her. “Don’t panic. Go to Momma and Leland’s office.”
Already panicking, Justice threaded her way through the growing crowd of dancers. She noticed some of the agents along the perimeter moved too. Her heart picked up speed. Her feet did too. No one had to say it. She knew.
Sandesh.
Chapter 61
Justice darted into Momma and Leland’s shared home office on the main level of the Mantua Home. More sedate than Momma’s office underground, it was twice the size, had two desks with chairs opposite them. And two sitting areas, e
ach containing a couch and four leather chairs.
Justice’s hands were slick with sweat. Her heart so high in her throat she could barely breathe. Her eyes darted around the room.
Leland.
He was on the phone. She stepped over to his desk. He looked at Justice. Held up one finger. No. Way. That phone was going out the window. She reached toward him.
Someone cleared a throat. Justice turned.
Bridget?
She was dressed in a loose gold gown cinched at the waist by a belt of faux flowers. It looked like something a Greek goddess might wear. Traitor. They let her come to the party. Of course. They needed everything to look normal. It wasn’t normal. And soon Bridget wouldn’t be normal. She’d be M-erased.
“What’s going on?”
“Justice.” Bridget used her customary let’s-get-calmed-down-and-seated-before-we-proceed voice.
The familiar tone, the normalness of it, hurt in a way Justice hadn’t anticipated. A physical ache in the center of her chest. She shoved it away, shoved all the pain into a box. “Don’t fuck with me right now, Bridget.”
Leland put a hand over the mouthpiece. “The limo we sent for Sandesh was found abandoned. The driver dead in the trunk.”
The driver? Lewis? His poor family. Justice straightened her shoulders, lifted her head, clenched her stomach, readied for the next punch. “And Sandesh?”
Leland raised a curious eyebrow. Paused as if listening on the phone. Come on. She could barely fucking breathe right now. “Leland.”
Leland hung up the phone. “They took him.”
Justice didn’t faint. She would never in a million years faint. Her legs though, it turned out, could forget to keep her standing. She sat. Plopped right on her ass in a chair in front of Leland’s desk.
It was Walid. It had to be. She turned to Bridget, glared.
Bridget shook her head. “I know nothing. Maybe Dada. Her contact, Juan.”
