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“What did you see?”
“It doesn’t matter what I saw. They’ll kill me,” he pleaded. “If I say anything. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”
I huffed. I looked at Dante. “I don’t have time for this shit. Not at my Uncle Zeke’s funeral. Get rid of him.”
I said it casually. With cruel intention. I knew things would be different once my father’s only brother had been killed. I didn’t expect it to change me overnight. Despite the heat, it was as if ice had coated my spinal cord. I hid the instinct to shiver from the other men.
I turned to walk away. Dante’s hand reached for the top of the trunk. The man screamed.
“I’ll talk. I’ll talk.”
I took a long pause before turning around. “What do you know?” I asked patiently. This was his last and only chance before I walked away for good.
“I saw who shot Zeke.”
I knew I wouldn’t return for the wake. “Start talking.”
Chapter2
Kennedy
Ididn’t like new places. I pressed the tortoise glasses against my nose to block the light. It was invasive and unwanted. I scooted lower in the bistro chair, slouching under a palm frond. The shade was hit or miss on the outdoor patio, but it was too crowded inside. I wanted space. Quiet. I wanted to wallow in the feeling of isolation.
“Thank you,” I acknowledged the waitress softly when she delivered my espresso.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“No.” I winced. My head hurt as I lifted it to take a sip. I was paying the price for the party I attended.
I didn’t make good decisions in new places.
I dug through my designer bag for ibuprofen and swallowed a few tablets with the coffee. My phone chirped, but I didn’t look at the screen. I couldn’t. There were probably pictures. In fact, if I closed my eyes long enough and remembered exactly what I had done, I could see the cell phones freely snapping shots of me.
I didn’t care then. I only somewhat cared now.
My phone chirped again. My eyes moved to the two men posted nearby. I couldn’t go to a damn coffee shop without my father’s detail. Their heads leaned closer together, and one of them whispered.
Shit.
The taller one walked toward me. “It’s time to go,” he announced. His hands clasped in front of him. I saw the blunt edge of his weapon when his jacket was pulled to the side.
“I haven’t finished my coffee,” I argued.
“It’s your father,” he replied. “You can bring the coffee with you.”
“I’d rather drink it here.” I didn’t want to acknowledge my hangover to him, even though he had noticed it. It was his job to notice everything about me.
“That’s not an option.” His voice was flat without emotion.
The second suit had already walked inside the bistro for a to-go cup. He returned, dumped my espresso in it, and handed it to me.
I glanced to my right. The couple next to me stared. They must have been tourists. Surely, the locals were used to mob boss’s daughters being dragged through the city against their wills. I didn’t know New Orleans well. I didn’t know how to read people here yet. No one in Philadelphia would have flinched.
I glared at the suits. “What is the emergency?”
“We can’t discuss it. It’s time to go.” His answer was as vague and sterile as the first time he told me.
“So, it is an emergency?” I pressed. Only for a second, I let the possibility rattle around that my father might be not be feeling well. He had more and more episodes lately. He wouldn’t tell me what the brown bottle of pills was that he kept in his breast pocket. I had stopped asking.
