Page 101 of Oddly Fine

“Maybe the kind that is designed by those in the Mafia not tactically trained like you are?” Hayes suggested, trying to keep the conversation civilized. Tension was rising quickly. Hayes was short on sleep, and even shorter on patience, so he could only imagine how close Beckett was to losing his shit.

“Couldn’t you just—ask?” Hayes suggested cautiously. “Pretend you saw Dillan rush out and it caught your attention?”

“No,” Matthew responded flatly and shook his head. He was holding onto his armrest, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.

“Why not?” Beckett pressed.

“Because we do not meddle in each other’s businesses. We each handle our own accounts, projects, and people, independent of each other. Nothing is connected—unless it’s for something legit. It keeps everyone clean and separate. Makes it impossible to turn on one another.”

“I’m confused. I thought this whole fucking thing was about getting you out of the family business. If you all have your own businesses and projects, why are we bothering? Can’t you just—walk out? Step away from all of it and let the FBI handle your uncle,” Beckett said, clearly at a loss, but Matthew was shaking his head before he was done talking.

“No.”

“Why not?” Beckett demanded with a frown.

“Because the family name is tied to all of it. Our reputation. In court, we’re clean of each other, but in the circles that matter, we are still the Rosarios,” he said, lifting his chin to underscore his pride in the status of the family.

“Oh my fucking Christ, who carrrresss?” Beckett growled in frustration.

“My grandfather built our legacy. And my father upheld it after him—” Matthew replied, irritated and offended by Beckett’s question. “I won’t let my uncle burn down everything they fought so hard to build.”

“Legacy?” Beckett snorted derisively as he shook his head. Rubbing the back of his head and biting his bottom lip, he worked to control his impatience with Matthew.

“Is something amusing?” Matthew asked challengingly.

Hayes really wished he hadn’t.

“Just trying to wrap my head around your legacy is all—” Beckett shrugged. “Not sure profiting from the most vulnerable and ruining millions of lives is really the hill I’d want to die on, but—maybe it’s the blood-soaked logic of the corrupt talking.”

Ah—there it was. That second level. The one that came after the childish taunts and the “your momma” jokes. The snake, and then the arrow—the sophisticated hit that never failed to land squarely on target.

Matthew’s jaw ticked, and his eyes darkened.

Hayes leaned forward, lacing his fingers together to keep his hand from twitching. He wanted to reach for Beckett. Shield him from whatever Matthew might say next. He didn’t—knowing that move would not be well received. Beckett did not want to be shielded—he wanted a buddy who’d help him hide the body later—after he snapped. Hayes wondered what it said about him that he was willing to act as both a shield and a shovel.

“Tell me, Agent Thérault—is the puppet not as guilty as the puppeteer if he pulls the trigger? How many triggers have you pulled, Beckett? How much blood is on your hands? What exactly would you say is your legacy, Captain Thérault?”

Silence fell—nobody moved, nobody spoke. Tension hung in the air like dust after an explosion. Hayes felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

Before Hayes could find anything to say to try to mitigate the damage, Beckett pulled the car door open and jumped out. They were stopped at a red light, which Hayes hadn’t noticed until his partner’s feet hit the pavement with a thud. Beckett disappeared from view before the car door had even slammed shut.

Hayes looked to Matthew—his mind said he was still technically on duty as a bodyguard, but his heart was hammering so hard to go after Beckett—ready to pound its way right out of his chest.

“Go,” Matthew said dismissively. He was looking out the opposite window. His jaw clenched tight. “Bring him back to the loft when he’s done pouting,” he ordered, and Hayes hated how he automatically snapped to attention before he leaped out of the SUV to chase down Beckett. He shut the door behind him, and a second later, the SUV took off, leaving them behind.

Beckett had not waited for Hayes. Hands in his pockets, head bowed, he’d begun walking down the sidewalk with purposeful strides.

“Beck!” Hayes yelled after him, as he raced to catch up. His boyfriend didn’t turn around. “Beckett!” He called again, louder, in case he hadn’t heard him the first time. Beckett never even slowed down, so Hayes began sprinting after his boyfriend. As soon as he was close enough, he reached for him, one hand closing around Beckett’s right forearm, tugging hard to get him to slow down.

“Beckett, wait!” he begged, slightly winded. There was a light snow falling, hitting his cheeks and melting on contact. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year. The snow wasn’t sticking—it just formed little puddles as soon as it hit the ground. They’d be soaked in no time.

“I’m not getting back in that fucking car,” Beckett growled, something feral in his expression as he whirled around and faced Hayes.

Hayes dropped his hold on Beckett’s arm, noticing immediately that his lover’s face was a tortured mask of anger, turmoil, regret, and pain. Hayes remembered his comment from earlier, “I’m also far more likely to lose my shit, blow our cover, and then shoot everyone in sight.” Perhaps Beckett really had been closer to losing it than Hayes realized.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he pleaded, daring to gently reach for one of Beckett’s fisted hands. His grip loosened as soon as Hayes made contact, and he allowed Hayes to cradle his hand in his own.

“He makes my skin crawl. He’s a worthless piece of shit. The kind of monster we’re supposed to be putting away—yet here we fucking are, acting like bitches for the riches,” he said mockingly, looking as if he wanted to shoot something.