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“That’s great, since I don’t need one,” I say mildly. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But I’m just here to do my job. So how about we try to make the best of it?”
Bricker scoffs, glancing sidelong at me. “You’re asking me to play nice with a goddamn Castellani? You’re lucky I don’t throw you out of my car right now.”
“And back up over me?” I ask. I don’t miss the unwilling smirk he gives. He sends me a narrow-eyed glance, and I feel another unwanted spark of attraction. His eyes are thick with lashes, pretty as a woman’s.
I shift in my seat and turn my attention back to the street. “Let’s just get to your place so you can fill me in. No need for conversation.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” he growls, pressing down on the gas pedal as if to emphasize his point.
* * *
Bricker’s house is a modern two-story nestled in an upscale, but not flashy neighborhood, just outside Bel Air. The lines of its architecture are modern and bold—just like its owner.
“Welcome home,” Bricker says with false cheerfulness as he steps out of the car and gestures for me to follow him. I ignore the unnecessary theatrics as I step out and take in the surroundings. No grass. No plants. Just neat stones and pavers, nothing that requires maintenance beyond occasional weedkiller.
Bricker has taken my bag out of the trunk and hands it to me like he can’t wait to get rid of it. “Come on, let’s get you settled and then get the hell back to work,” he says, leading the way to the front door.
Inside, Bricker pauses to put his keys in a glazed bowl on a side table by the door. He raises his voice a little to say, “I’m home,” in a way that suggests not a roommate, but a smart house. And I hear the faint hum of the air conditioning start up, along with the automatic turning off of the alarm.
“Voice control,” he says, turning to me with a smug smile.
The walls are muted colors and hung with paintings—not the challenging kind Sandro Castellani prefers, but the kind that makes you relax when you look at it, earthy tones and shadowy curves, impressionistic seas and mountain ranges.
The furniture in the living room, when he leads me in there, looks comfortable but not particularly expensive; he has a huge TV and modern sound system. Obviously he prefers to spend his money on electronics.
Well. We have that in common.
Bricker points out key features of his security systems as we move through each room during the walkthrough, subtly testing my knowledge and expertise, asking my opinion about brands, or the latest tech. But I’m impressed by the attention to detail in the setup.
“Motion sensors, reinforced doors, bullet-resistant glass,” Bricker lists off, his tone too-casual in a way that suggests he’s still gauging my reaction. “And of course, camera coverage of every inch. Outsideandinside.”
“Thorough,” I concede. “I assume you have backup generators for power outages?”
“Of course. We wouldn’t want our defenses going down over something as trivial as a blackout, now would we?”
“We would not,” I reply dryly, and I decide to change tactics. “So what about you, Bricker? You an Esposito legacy, or a sign up?”
“Already trying to dig up dirt?” Bricker chuckles. “Since you ask, I was born and raised right here in Los Angeles. I wanted to be a superhero, but alas, the call of supervillainy proved too enticing.”
There’s something about the way he deflects questions, using humor as a shield, that makes me want to push further. “Siblings?”
“Maybe, maybe not. You planning on giving meyourautobiography, Pedretti? No? Then that’s enough about me. We should get you settled in, and then we’ll head over to the Lair and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew. They’ll berealhappy to meet you, I’m sure.”
As we continue through the house, I make a mental note of the security measures Bricker points out. Despite our rocky start and his hostility, I feel an undeniable respect for the man he is beneath the sarcasm and bravado.
Fabi can be proud of him.
Is Bricker in touch with his father? Hard to know.
And speaking of keeping in touch, what the hell am I going to do about that myself? If the Boss doesn’t hear from me, he’ll go ballistic—or worse, Julian will—and I have no faith in Anna-Vittoria’s assurance that she’ll speak to Sandro herself. But Bricker’s security really is top-notch, which will make everything a little more tricky.
Finally, Bricker leads me to a spare bedroom upstairs. It’s right opposite his own room, and the closeness isn’t lost on me. He’ll be keeping me under observation.
“Look, Bricker,” I sigh, as one too many side-eyes finally gets to me, “I’m here to help, that’s all. I’m not looking to cause trouble. You won’t have any problems with me.”
Bricker snorts derisively. “We don’tneedhelp, and especially not from a Castellani. And just so you know, I’ll be watching you closely, Pedretti. Any hint of betrayal, I won’t worry too much about putting you down.”
The words are harsh, but they don’t surprise me. In our line of work, trust is hard-earned and easily lost, and that’s the way it should be. “Like I told your Boss—excuse me, your Maestra—I get it, and I’m ready to play ball.”
