Page 57 of Unlock My Heart

My face remains neutral as I jump through the hoops: a pat down, a secured door, another pat down, another secured door. Al’s here to tell me the devastating news about our brother’s untimely death.

I can’t wait.

Entering the visitation room, I lock eyes with Angelo.

That slippery motherfucking snake.

“You shouldn’t have dressed up for me.” My brother’s in a tuxedo; another power play.

I take a seat, my expression one of boredom, all the while, I envision hopping over the table and ripping his trachea out with my bare hands.

“You wanted my attention. You’ve got it,” he says with the same level of disinterest.

“No clue what you’re talking about,” I tell him.

I didn’t want your attention; I wanted your head on a pike in the middle of Jackson Square. “But hey, can you get me a bag of chips?” I jerk mine to the vending machine.

“So you didn’t send me a message last night?” Angelo presses.

“Nope,” I say, popping the p. “Out of phone credit for the month.” Which isn’t a lie, now that I can contact Al. Or at least, I was able to contact Al. No doubt Angelo will put a stop to that. “Can you add some cash to my account?”

“I could.” He smirks.

“You get off on this, don’t you, little brother?” I say through my teeth.

Angelo tents his fingers. “Tell me, Fabien, what are your plans when you’re released next month?”

It’s my turn to smirk. “I expect to be welcomed back with open arms, like I never left.”

“Here’s the problem,” he says with faux-sympathy dripping from each word. “You’ll be a convicted felon on parole, and you won’t be able to associate with other felons. All the businesses you previously oversaw now have a felon manager, as I’m a big believer in ending recidivism. Part of my philanthropic mission.” He flicks an invisible piece of lint off his tux.

Throwing myself forward in my chair, I whisper-hiss, “I expect my seat at the table, you pretentious little shit.” And philanthropic mission, my ass. Guarantee he hired ex-cons to keep me out of the family business. I don’t bother telling him his little plan won’t work; I’ll have completed one hundred percent of my time, so no parole necessary for this soon-to-be-ex-con.

“Your seat’s ready and waiting. Our seafood company in Shreveport needs a night manager,” he whisper-hisses back.

Like the bullshit it is, his offer gets swatted away. “Fire whoever needs to be fired. I’m coming back to New Orleans.”

“You’re not in a position to make demands, not with ten years missing from your CV,” he tells me dismissively.

I fall back in my chair, sizing my brother up. “Mr. Ivy League always dropping the fancy terms. Oh, that’s right, though. You don’t have a degree. Too busy playing boss.”

“That’s enough,” he says in a bored tone, but I can tell my shot hit the mark.

“If Mama were alive, she’d be disgusted with the way you’re acting,” I continue my verbal offensive. “Like keeping Al from me⁠—”

“This conversation is over.” He jolts out of his seat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Always nice to catch up with you, big brother.”

“And I’ll be catching up with you, little brother, in,” I glance at the clock on the wall, “44,640 minutes.”

“I plan on making each of those minutes as boss count,” he replies smugly before strolling out.

Angelo’s arrogance will be his downfall, that I fucking vow.

I’m escorted back to general pop, where I go in search of Kirksey. Finding him in the yard, the men surrounding him make themselves scarce when they see me.

“Your message didn’t get delivered,” I grit through my teeth.

“Let’s take a walk,” Kirksey says, and we move along the track, away from any potential listening ears. “The recipient got lucky; my delivery boy’s still on the job,” he assures me of his hitman.