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“Did you do it on purpose?” He sniggers the way teenagers are apt to when they have nothing on their shoulders. “You dated Jill, took what was Pastore’s. You married the doctor; also Pastore’s.”
“Not his. Never his. They dated once. And Jill was a chick I dated when I was a kid. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t a power play, and both of our fathers promised there would be no retribution. It was a crush between kids that eventually grew into something more—and then Tim punished her because he wanted to punish me.”
“Now Pastore wants your wife. He currently has Micah…”
“Which is why I’m here,” I conclude through a tight jaw. “To figure this mess out and get Felix off my back.”
Setting the ball on his bed, Cato pushes up to stand and crosses the room to a rack of regulation-sized basketballs. Taking one and standing in the corner of his room, an easy twenty or so feet from the hoop, he lines up his shot and throws so it swishes through the steel and lands to his bed with a muffledthwump.
“I heard you weren’t very nice when he got to Copeland,” he ventures.
He throws another ball.
Swishes.
Thwump.
“Felix held a gun to my wife’s face,” I growl. “Lured her into danger, kidnapped my best friend’s daughter because,oops, he thought she was mine and wanted to meet her.”
Throw. Swish.Thwump.
“He didn’t come to Copeland with a white flag, Cato.” I rush to my feet and move fast enough to catch the next ball he throws.
Like a wild animal disturbed while hunting, his eyes turn a little feral, and his Malone genes shine right through.
“He came to my home with a weapon pointed at the people I love. He placed a snitch inside Tim’s bar, like he could get intel on who we are now and how we live, and when she was no longer useful, he slit her throat and left her to traumatize our friend.” I toss the ball back and feel the twinge of pain in my injured shoulder. “He got me shot!”
Cato catches the basketball and wrinkles his nose. “He always did lack finesse. And the gun should never have worried you. You know he prefers the blade.”
“Doesn’t make it any less deadly when pointed at Minka’s face!”
I intercept his ball again and snap one of the last remaining tethers keeping my brother’s aggression bottled inside.
“He fucked up, Cato. He came in gun’s blazing like we were the enemy. He put my friends in danger. He killed cops and about a dozen other people who—”
“Those kills?” He shakes his head, like being seventeen and discussing murder is absolutely normal. “They weren’t innocents. They wanted to hurt the family.”
“They were hits in my city!”
“They were hitsinyour city,” he tosses back like a jab. “Don’t think for a second they weren’t looking for you, Arch. He was taking care of our family, all the while trying to figure out if you’d shoot him on sight. You needed to give him a second to make sure his back was covered and he had body armor.”
“Word to the wise,” I snarl. “Using my wife as body armor will not be tolerated.”
I turn to the hoop and shoot my shot. But I clearly suck, because the ball bounces off the steel rim and slams to the lamp on his bedside table. Glass and ceramic shatter to the floor, while the shade pings to the bed and lands amongst the other balls that’ve already been thrown.
“You can’t throw for shit.” Snatching the last ball from the rack, Cato lines his shot and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, then he shoots, creating the perfect arc through the air until it drops through the net with aswish.
“I’m gonna play for the Knicks someday.” He glances across and grins that patented Malone smile. “Maybe when we play the Copeland Condors, I’ll visit you and your pretty little wife.”
“Call her pretty or look at her ass, and I’ll rip your fucking eyes out.” Breaking away from my spot, I cross to my baby brother and know, amongst all that chatter, we’ve reconnected. It’s tenuous at best, but it’s there. “With my bare fingers,” I finish with a smirk.
“How very Timothy Malone of you,” he rolls his eyes and turns toward the door. Stepping into the hall, he glances back and waits for me to follow. “We need to figure out how to get Micah back.”
I sigh and descend the stairs by his side. “Yup.” Then, “Tim?” I shout loud enough to alert the entire house. “Where the fuck are you?”
“Here.” He steps out of the kitchen with a sandwich in his hand and his hair dangling in his eyes.
We haven’t eaten since Copeland, and now that I’m in the presence of food, my stomach twists with realization. But while I consider what to make, my brothers study each other the way Cato and I did just ten minutes ago.
