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“Jesus, Roman. Yes, biological. Family reunions, holidays, childhood memories. The whole cousin package.”

One second he's sitting across from me. The next he's on his feet, all six-foot-four inches of him looking considerably more murdery than he did thirty seconds ago.

“What's his real name?”

I hesitate.

“Callie.”

“You just told me a professional killer is looking for my cousin.”

“I know.”

“And you're also a professional killer.”

His expression doesn't change. “Yeah.”

At least he's honest.

“Do you understand why I'm not immediately handing over Smoke's address and Social Security number?”

“I didn't ask for either.”

“Yet.”

His jaw shifts. I can practically see him forcing himself not to order me around.

It’s tiny, emotionally constipated progress. But still progress.

“Tell me about him.”

“He's my cousin. You're going to have to narrow that down.”

“What does he do?”

“If I knew my cousin had something a murderous fixer wanted, I probably would've led with that.”

Roman stares at me. “Okay,” he says finally. “What does he do?”

“He rides a motorcycle. Wears leather. Has tattoos on basically every piece of skin God gave him.”

“That isn't an occupation.”

“I'm painting a picture.”

“I don't need a picture. I asked what he does.”

“Mostly scares the shit out of Drew.”

Roman doesn’t even crack a smile. His nostrils flare, his expression somehow more murderous than usual.

Tough crowd.

“He owns a custom motorcycle and auto shop in Blackridge.”

Roman’s brows draw together.

Before he can say anything, I add, “He's protective.”