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Andrea pushes up from his chair, while the youngest closes in from behind, the two of them caging me in the narrow hallway. “You had some business with your father, as I understand.”
“I did.”
“He’s alive, then?” Andrea slips a pair of brass knuckles over his gloved hand and puts his cigar out in the half glass of water I left on the dresser this morning.
I watch every move, choosing my words carefully, my whole body poised in defense. “Not for long.”
“Good. One less to kill.”
“You honestly think I was capable of killing her? Ever?”
Brows winged up, he shrugs. “I don’t know. And I don’t care. Let’s get this over with.”
“Isabella?”
At my question, I catch a flicker of pain dance across his face. If anyone in the world loved my daughter near as much as I did, it was Val’s brothers.
“All I know is, they’re dead. And you’re alive.” He lurches toward me, but when I pull the knife from beneath my coat, he stops short and shakes his head. “Savios carrying knives now. ‘The fuck’s the world coming to?”
“I came here to kill my father.” My hand is trembling, which tells me years of priesthood has reconnected me to some small measure of my humanity again. Andrea catches it, too, judging by his subtle glance toward my hand still holding the knife. “I planned to slit his throat.”
“And?” Only a slight air of intrigue colors his otherwise bored tone.
“Vinnie killed them.”
“Vinnie worked for your father. This conversation is getting old.”
“He skipped out with ten grand from my father.”
Lip snarled in disgust, he shakes his head. “That’s all my sister’s life was worth to you? Ten grand?”
“He was paid to kill someone else. Goes byEl Cabro Blanco. You heard of him?”
I catch a brief exchange between Andrea and Cristian, before they look back to me.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“What would he want with my sister?” The clench of his teeth betrays his emotionless face.
“All I know is Val planned to testify in court. She’d met with some lawyers.”
Andrea’s eyes flutter shut, and he drags his hand down his face, finally setting my muscles at ease. “Fuck.”
“Who is this guy?”
Letting out a huff, Andrea retreats back toward his chair and lights up another cigar, spitting the clipped end of it onto the floor before taking a puff. Cristian plops down at the end of the bed, rubbing his hand over his skull.
“What’s his story?” I ask again, trying to decipher their body language, which seems uncharacteristically defeated.
“Locals call him the White Goat. Drug trafficker.” Andrea tips his head back against the chair and exhales hard through his nose. “’The fuck was she thinking?”
“Where do I find him?”
“You don’t.”
“He slaughtered my family.”
“And my sister. But I’ve no intentions of walking into the mouth of hell. Not when I have my own family to think about.”
