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“And how exactly will I help you, Hayes?” Saying his name feels like a delicious sin.
“I know you don’t want me to risk anyone’s life,” he begins, his voice low and intimate. “I’m going to come clean with you, all right?”
“All right,” I reply cautiously, my curiosity piqued.
“I’m off the case.”
That makes me sit up and pay attention. “What does that mean?”
Hayes stands up, his leg twitching as if he can’t stay still. He moves to the back of the couch and paces. “The FBI dropped it,” he says, frustration evident in his voice. “They said I have no proof, even if I do.”
“Proof of what?” I turn in my seat, trying to watch him as he paces.
“Proof that Salvatore was a Bonanno,” he mutters while tugging at strands of his hair. “I know he was, but they paid the FBI off. They marked Sal with his alias, told me to leave it the hell alone, and that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.” He continues to talk while anxiously pulling at his hair.
“This is personal to you,” I observe as the shower turns off, but Milo keeps singing, his words mumbled by the floor between us.
“It’s personal to me,” Hayes confirms, coming around the side of the couch and sitting much closer to me. His eyes plead with me as he continues. “I grew up in Texas. My family, they were hardworking people, raised three boys,” he says with pride and a hint of sadness.
I shake my head, my heart pounding. “What are you trying to say, Hayes?”
His fingers shake as he reaches into a pocket and pulls out an old, discolored photograph with curling edges. He gazes down at the picture for a long moment before speaking again. “I had two brothers, and we grew up on a ranch. Until I was a teenager, I didn’t realize that there was anything off about our family or the ranch.”
I swallow hard as I listen to Milo running around his room, getting ready for bed.
“We’d have to get up and help on the ranch at the crack of dawn,” Hayes continues, his fingertips brushing the picture as his eyes blur with unshed tears. “My brothers and I, we’d get up and tend to the chickens first.” His voice quivers. “I was thirteen that day. Thirteen. I was in the coop with my brothers when we heard the first shot.”
I jump as though I hear that shot, but it’s only Milo slamming his door shut—a wordless demand for my presence.
“I need to say goodnight,” I whisper, my heart pounding. I don’t want to listen to his story because I already know where it’s going, or at least my gut tells me I do—death.
I rise and step around Hayes toward the staircase. Once more, I see a shadow move, and this time, I catch the outline of Lyric. Leaving both men on the first floor, I rush upstairs toward Milo’s room.
When I open the door, I find him already in bed, his eyes heavy as he looks at me, his pink lips parted as though he’s already on his way to sleep. He wrapped his little arms around Albert, who purrs thunderously.
I slowly lower myself to the side of the bed and peel his glasses off his face. His blue eyes blink up at me, and he smiles. “Thanks for letting me go tomorrow.”
“Have fun and take your phone. I’ll plug it in.” I push his wet hair off his face and run my thumb along the bridge of his nose. When he was a baby, this is how I got him to sleep before handing him off to our mom.
“Okay.” He yawns, his eyes drooping. “Love you, Lottie.”
“Love you too, tater tot.” I press a kiss to his forehead and creep back downstairs. I’m almost positive he’s already asleep by the time I return to Hayes, who hasn’t moved an inch. Not wanting to startle him, I give him a wide berth before sitting back on the couch.
“He asleep?” Hayes asks, sniffling a little.
“Out cold.” I give him a warm smile. “Must have been all that sugar.”
“Ah, sugar crash.” Some of his usual charm seeps back in. “My favorite way to pass out.”
“Will you tell me the rest of your story?” I grab his bicep before letting my fingertips glide down his arm until I grip his hand. The gesture is meant to comfort, but his muscles flex beneath my fingertips.
He’s hiding all that muscle.
He squeezes my hand back. “We hid in the coop for as long as possible before we thought it was safe. I remember everything about that day. We wore jeans, and I had on a green shirt. I remember the scent of the coop and how bright the sky was. I remember stepping out of that coop and walking toward the house only to find…” He pauses.
“It’s okay.” I grip his hand tightly.
“No, I need your help, so I have to get this out.” He blows out a breath. “Later, much later, I’d learn that our parents worked for the Mexican cartel. They were running cocaine, and they were taking money off the top.”
