Page 157 of Duty

What if?

What if his cousin had trusted the Calabrese? What if Andino was just a little too late? There were so many fucking what ifs.

This was his fault.

His mistake.

He was supposed to look after John, and he hadn’t done that. At least, not well. And if his cousin lost his life, then that blood was on Andino’s hands. No question. He was never going to be able to forgive himself for that.

Ever.

He could hear a woman’s voice talking as he climbed higher in the brownstone, but he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Probably Siena. How long as she been here with John before they even arrived? Andino had just rounded the top of the third flight of stairs when that voice finally became clearer to him.

“Please, John, look it’s me …”

He picked up his fucking pace, then.

Andino came to a skidding stop in the doorway of what looked to be an office. His gaze darted all around to take in what he could.

His cousin, alive.

Siena, too close to a wild-eyed John.

A man, dead.

Bits of brain, and blood on a desk.

Andino blinked. “Fuck.”

It was the only thing he could think to say. Nothing else felt quite appropriate about the scene laid out in front of him.

A rival Cosa Nostra boss dead, and by his cousin’s hand, it seemed. At least, if the gun in John’s hand was any indication.

“Move back,” Lucian snapped, pushing his way past Andino in the doorway. “Siena, move back from him now.”

The woman looked over her shoulder, wary and scared. She couldn’t possibly understand, but that wild look in John’s eyes meant bad things. He wasn’t here—not really. He wasn’t seeing her; he was seeing something else entirely in his mania.

The thin line between being manic, and sliding into psychosis.

Psychosis was a monster.

The last time his cousin looked like that, Andino stared down the barrel of John’s gun. He’d not really been frightened, then.

He was terrified now.

“Move back!”

• • •

Andino glanced up from his coffee mug when his uncle came to stand in the entrance of the dining room. John’s house was quiet, and dark. It belied the hell that they found only a few hours before. His uncle looked worn—for the first time that Andino could remember, Lucian seemed like he was showing his age.

Stress could do that.

“She loves him quite a bit, doesn’t she?” Lucian asked.

Andino lifted one shoulder. “Siena is very protective of John. She loves him.”

Lucian nodded. “And yet, she is still—”