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“Did you do that to him for information, or because he tried to hurt Tempest?”
“Let’s just say the information was a nice bonus.”
Gabriel curls his lip.
“So, was he right?”
Gabriel frowns and doesn’t answer immediately.
“For fuck’s sake, Gabriel,” I snap. “This is about knowing if anyone else is coming after Tempest!”
He and his brother glance at each other again. When Alistair nods subtly, Gabriel draws in a breath and turns back to me.
“Seven’s the number we were told, too.”
I scowl. “From the little fuck who hanged himself?”
Alistair nods. “Yep. Brett Sinclair.” He all but spits the name. “Good fucking riddance.”
This time, he actually does turn his head and spit. I can’t say I blame him. But then, something occurs to me, and my eyes narrow.
“Forget his Apex buddies. Would hisfamilywant either of you?—”
“Nope,” Gabriel grunts with finality.
I frown. “You seem awfully sure about that.”
Alistair smirks. “There’s only one Sinclair left, and he sends us a Christmas card every year from one of his several mansions around the world.”
My brow arches. “Why the fuck would he do that?”
“After Brett offed himself in the holding cell, the Sinclair family went to shit. His parents got divorced when it turned out Mrs. Sinclair—Jacqueline—had been banging her tennis coach. Grant Sinclair, Brett’s dad, took everything and left Jacqueline withshit. A few years later, Grant and his new girlfriend died in a car crash and the entire fortune went to Grant’s weirdo slacker brother, Chris. I mean this guy was trying to start a fucking kombucha company and then woke up one morning to a dead brother and a bank account worth eight billion dollars. They hated each other, I think, but that was the only family Grant had left. So now Chris sends us Christmas cards, like a macabre thank you note.”
I frown. “And the ex-wife? Jacqueline?”
“Also dead,” Gabriel sighs. “She managed to hang on a few years by selling off her furs and jewelry. But she ended up broke and was found dead of a drug overdose in some hotel in Vegas a year or two ago.”
“Well, shit,” I mutter. “We’re back at square one.”
Alistair eyes me appraisingly. “You really killed six of those fuckers?”
I nod.
“So now they’re all dead,” he muses quietly. “Tempest know that?”
“She does.”
“Good,” he growls.
Just then, the door swings open and Lorenzo walks in briskly, a hard look on his face.
“What’s going on?” I growl. “Where’s?—”
“Mrs. Sartorre and Ms. Black are safely on their way to your place, sir, with some of my most trusted men. But you need to see this immediately.” He holds up a plastic bag marked “Evidence”. “From one of our boys on the NYPD.”
He passes the bag to me, and I frown at the cork inside.
“From your house,” Lorenzo says to Gabriel. “It’s from the bottle.”
