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“She doesn’t like that I’ve officially renounced Paxton.”
“Bah,” Valentina scoffed. “He would not have been good for you. Bernadette knows that, in her heart. But she does not want to face that her son was … what is phrase?”
“Fucked up?”
Valentina gave a decisive nod. “That works. But that woman is like ostrich. Buries her head in sand. Mateo is same. He will have sensed you only saw him as friend, but he chose to believe what brought him comfort. But it is my son you care for, no?”
Bree was pretty sure her mouth fell open.
“Why look so shocked I sensed how you feel? I see all. This you know.”
Bree felt her mouth curve into a weak but genuine smile. The woman was a treasure. “Well, Alex doesn’t feel the same for me, so I guess I’ve been quite the ostrich, too.”
“I do not know what my son feels for you. But I do not believe he feels nothing. He does not like to be away from you.” Valentina sipped her tea. “Did you know he calls to check on you while he is roaming?”
Bree’s head snapped up. “I heard he drops off the radar; that he doesn’t use his cell or the internet or anything.”
“He did not used to. But in the last few years, that changed. And he must also check his voicemails while roaming, because he told us to leave him message if you have problem. Does that not tell you something?”
Bree heaved a sigh. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s not going to act on whatever he might feel. He was clear on that.”
Valentina flicked a hand. “Bah.”
Again with the ‘bah.’ It never failed to make Bree smile.
“I would ask you not to give up on him yet. But if you feel that, in giving him time, you will be wasting your own, I understand. He has had chance to make right choice, and he has not.” Valentina sighed. “It is sad for a mother to realize she raised an idiot.”
A smile tugged at Bree’s mouth. “He’s not an idiot.”
“Oh, but he is. Unlike Mila, my foolish son only ever learned his lessons hard way—I do not know why that is.”
Bree gathered the dishware. “Well, thank you for breakfast, Valentina. It was amazing.” She took the plates to the sink. And the breath left her lungs in a rush. Because lying on the windowsill was the fucking half-heart necklace.
Someone had obviously dug it out of the trash can. It was possible that one of the people who came last night caught a glimpse of it, thought she’d dropped it in there by mistake, and so fished it back out. Or Bernadette herself might have been the one to do it. It would have been relatively easy to guess, given Bree had officially renounced Paxton, that she’d throw the necklace away. Right? Maybe. Or not.
“How long was Bernadette here last night?” she asked Valentina, careful to sound casual.
“She did not come,” replied Valentina, joining her at the sink. “But Ruben and Calvin were here.”
Well … one of them could have seen it in the trash and dug it out. She thought about asking Valentina if anyone had mentioned finding the necklace. But if they hadn’t, Valentina would then want to know all about the damn thing—it wasn’t a story that Bree felt like telling. Especially since the female wolverine would confront Bernadette about it, no matter Bree’s feelings on that.
“Now,” began Valentina, “let us wash dishes. Then we will plot weird and wonderful ways to make Moira miserable.”
“Oh, I can get behind that.”
It took a little over two hours to reach the agency. Located in a rough, neglected area among a row of stores, the small building was no bigger than the barbershop where Mila worked.
As Tate parked the seven-seater SUV outside, Vinnie very quickly relayed the simple plan to his sons, Alex, and the three enforcers who’d come along: Walk inside, state that they wished to speak with Marino, and then get shit done.
Simple.
But when they entered the plain, sparse office, there was no one at the incredibly disordered reception desk, and nobody came out to greet them. What did greet them was a thick, coppery scent mingled with the astringent smell of bleach.
Alex exchanged a look with Vinnie.
With Tate in the lead, protecting his father like always, they followed the potent scents into a private office. Both Marino and a pretty redhead were sprawled on the threadbare gray carpet. And both were dead.
Marino had been mercilessly beaten to a pulp, gruesomely savaged with claws, and had taken a bullet to the center of his forehead. The receptionist had also been beaten and shot in the head. The weird thing about the stomach-churning sight? With the exception of the bullet holes, the victims’ wounds hadn’t bled much at all. It was more like they’d oozed a little blood. Which told Alex one very significant thing …
