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And lots and lots of voice mails.
“Huh…that’s interesting.” Instead of listening to the voice mails, I called him straight back, because whatever he needed to talk about, it was important. My mind jumped to the worst-case scenario—that Lucas had killed my sister because of what I’d said to him.
He answered immediately. I wasn’t even sure if it’d rung or not. “Laura.”
He was pissed. I could tell just by the way he said my name. “Leonardo.”
“I’m the last person you want to fuck with. I don’t give a damn if you’re my daughter.”
“Wow, it’s barely nine in the morning, and we’re starting with threats already.”
“Lucas is like family. How dare you do this?”
“Uh, Catherineisfamily. Why don’t you care more about that?”
“What does she have to do with this?”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “You think some asshole can give my little sister a black eye and I’m not going to do anything about it? I’ll shove a cigar in his eye next time he touches her.”
He turned quiet.
“I’m not sorry, so if you’re expecting an apology, you aren’t going to get one.”
“Laura, I’m talking about last night. Yourboyfriendcame to the bar and stabbed Lucas. Now he can barely take two steps without collapsing in pain. He’s one of my best men, and I’ve just found myself in a crisis with one man down. This is serious.”
I was quiet—because I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Give me his name.” The threat was in his voice, unmistakable, full of fury.
“Don’t you have a crisis on your hands?”
“Nobody touches Lucas and gets away with it.”
“I literally just told you that your precious Lucas is hitting your daughter, and you act like you didn’t hear it.”
“Their marital problems are none of my concern—”
“Wow, you’re an even bigger asshole than I thought,” I snapped. “At least my man gives a damn. When I told him Lucas took a swing at me, he actually did something about it. What kind of man are you?”
“I want his name—”
“Trust me, you don’t.” I hung up, and just so I wouldn’t have to deal with it, I turned off my phone.
“Everything okay?”
I turned around to see Bartholomew in his black sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp after drying it with a towel. His chiseled body was only blemished by a single scar, a bullet from an old friend. “You went to Lucas last night and stabbed him?”
He kept a straight face, not the least bit apologetic.
“And told them you were my boyfriend?”
He stepped closer to me, his eyes taking in mine. “You sound mad.”
“Because I am.”
“You wanted me to kill him?”
“No,” I snapped. “I never asked you to get involved.”
