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“Go back upstairs, Amelia.”Sam’s voice is sharp enough to cut glass, but he never takes his eyes off whoever is on the other side of the door, so I keep moving down the stairs.
Needing to see who it is.
Afraid I already know the answer.
Sam’s gun is held high and pointing at the intruder.
Blocking his face.
Until the man moves his head slightly, and my world tilts on its axis.
“I’m here to see her as much as I am you, Beneventi. Are you going to let me in?”
With the hand not holding my revolver, I brace myself against the railing, refusing to let my knees buckle like they’re threatening to.
For a minute, I’m a ten-year-old girl again, wanting to know what her mother is doing in the basement. “Sam?”
He never turns his head away from the man standing at the door. “Go back upstairs.”
“It’s been a long time, Anastasia.” That voice...
No sooner have the words left George’s mouth than Sam’s gun is placed flat up against his head. “One more word. One more inch, Tremblay, and you’re a dead man.”
Forcing my feet to move, I hurry down to the bottom of the stairs and run to Sam’s side. It’s as if I’ve been run over by a Mack truck when I see him, up close and unobstructed.
A ghost from a past I left behind.
Sam’s angry eyes look from me to George, then back to me. “Are you ever going to do what you’re told?”
“No,” I tell him honestly.
“Let me in, Beneventi. It’s fucking cold out here, and I’ve come a long way to see you.” His eyes scan me from head to toe before adding, “And her.”
“He’s clean, boss,” Sam’s man adds.
Sam steps aside, never lowering his gun. “One wrong move, and I will shoot you.”
George’s lips slowly inch up into a small smile. “I’m more worried about her. She’s a better shot than you.”
“And why would you think that?” Sam asks as we walk to his office.
“Because I taught her.”
That one single sentence brings back a lifetime of memories, while also adding so much hurt and confusion.
Sam stops dead in his tracks with concern lacing his eyes. Eyes that look at me, into me, and ask me if I’m okay without ever opening his mouth.
Once we enter Sam’s office, he waits for George to sit in one of the chairs across from his desk, then sits behind the desk. I lean against the wall next to the door.
A silent observer.
For now.
“Explain to me why you thought it would be a good idea to come to my house in the middle of the night, uninvited.” He lays his gun down on the desk but keeps his hand on it. His eyes never stray from George. They don’t so much as look an inch in my direction. “Explain to me why you don’t think you deserve to die for that.”
“I told you I was coming to claim my brother’s body.” George turns from Sam and looks at me. He’s older. Heavier. With more lines and wrinkles marring his face than when I left Washington. But there’s no doubt it’s him. “And I needed to see you, Anastasia. I needed to explain.”
Sam stands and bangs his gun against the desk threateningly. “You do not speak to her. You do not get to so much as fucking look at her.” Sam finally looks my way, but the anger is still there, coursing through his veins. “Explain it to me.”
