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He’s right. While I’m busy raging at the world for breaking me and taking Mirella away, she might be in trouble. Cillian’s out there somewhere and he’s got some insane, fucked-up hard-on for her that I don’t understand.
“Where could she have gone?” Gavino asks, sipping his drink. His hand’s trembling. “Any guesses? We can start looking there.”
“She’s at her mother’s house. She wanted to visit because her mother called and sounded strange, but I told her she wasn’t allowed.” I shake my head, hand balled into a fist. “She went anyway.”
Gavino nods slowly and glances back at Nico, who shrugs. “Could be it,” Nico says.
“Mirella loves her mother,” Elise adds, leaning against Karah. “I think if she went anywhere, she went home. That’s the only way she would’ve run off.”
“I agree,” Karah says. “Mirella wouldn’t just abandon everyone for no reason.”
I take a couple deep, steadying breaths. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that,” I say, not looking at my family. “It won’t happen again.”
“Don’t worry, brother. I think breaking and throwing things is about the healthiest way this family expresses its feelings.”
I grin at him and take a limping step over. We clasp hands and nod at each other. He throws his drink back and turns. “Let’s go find the girl.”
“I’ll come,” Nico says, kissing Karah on the cheek. She nods at him gratefully. “I could use the exercise, and I haven’t killed any Irishmen in a while.”
Karah pushes his shoulder, smiling, and he kisses her one more time. We head toward the door, but Casso calls out. “Be careful,” he says. “Don’t take any risks. Find out where Mirella’s at, make sure she’s safe, but don’t do anything stupid. It could be a trap.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say and head out.
Nico drives. I sit up front, and Gavino takes the back seat, spreading out in the middle. He’s checking the guns, making sure they’re loaded and ready, going over them with careful, methodical motions. The GPS on my phone gives Nico directions.
“You really care about this one, don’t you?” Nico talks quietly, staring out the windshield. We’re close, only a few minutes away. The neighborhoods out here are densely packed with single-family ranchers, many of them rundown. It’s not the nicest area, on the lower end of Phoenix, but it’s not the worst. A fair number of Bruno guys have houses around here.
“I tried not to, but things happen sometimes.”
“I know what you mean.” Nico smiles, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to catch feelings for Karah, but here I am. Married, with a kid.”
“Suckers,” Gavino mutters from the back seat and one of the guns clicks and clacks as he cocks the slide. He passes it up to me and I take it, holding the weapon in my hands, weighing it. Heavy, solid. Made for killing. Nico takes his and leaves it in his lap as he drives.
“I’ll tell you what, it changes you,” Nico says as the GPS chirps at him to take the next left. “Children especially. You think, how can you possibly do this? Keep a baby alive?”
“You have a lot of help,” Gavino points out. “Nannies, housekeepers, cooks.”
Nico ignores him. “But you manage. And more than that, it changes your relationship with your partner. Karah was my wife, but she’s also the mother of my children now. It’s a good thing. It deepens the love. We didn’t start out this way though. We had to get here gradually, coming to understand each other in the process.”
“If you’re trying to make excuses for Mirella—”
He shakes his head. “Only saying it isn’t easy for anyone. What she did, it was a bad decision. Running off wasn’t smart. But don’t let it define things for you.”
He slows and pulls over. I let that run through my head, don’t let it define things for you, and I’m not sure how to process my emotions. I feel betrayed, angry, hurt. But I’m also terrified for her and desperate to find her so I can make sure she’s safe. Being away from her is like being apart from a limb.
Mirella’s mother’s house is a rancher like all the others, though it’s well kept. A car’s in the driveway, a simple sedan. I get out and slip the gun into my waistband. Nico and Gavino move to come with me, but I wave them off as I limp to the front door. The door is simple wood and the stucco is light gray with dark-colored shingles on the roof. I knock a couple times and hear someone shuffling around inside.
The woman that answers is a version of Mirella in thirty years. Her mother’s small, like she is, but with different eyes and nose and cheeks. They have the same hair though, and the same uncertain smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Falconet? My name’s Fynn Bruno.”
