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Hobart tentatively smiled back. “Ah, yes, I see. Of course.”
“Of course.” Then he leaned forward, and murmured a phrase into Hobart’s ear, in a foreign language that Bruno could not catch.
Hobart seemed to grow three inches taller, his eyes dilated, and his cheeks flushed, as Zoe’s had done. He started to pant.
“Thank you,” Hobart said, his voice choked with emotion.
Bruno’s hands jerked against the cuffs. Every significant piece of his life was being destroyed. Kev, Zia Rosa, Lily. Even Sean McCloud.
King noticed him again. “Oh, you’re upset? About your great-aunt, your adopted brother? Don’t worry,” he coaxed, patting Bruno’s shoulder. “It’s not like you’ll be needing them anymore.”
Bruno twisted to sink his teeth into the back of King’s hand.
A hoarse shriek jerked out of King’s throat. A fist came flying, connected with Bruno’s face. His chair tipped, toppled. He careened in a slow arch, slammed to the ground, head cracking against cold tile.The world went wonky. A booted foot slammed into his thigh, then his gut…and the world swung and slid, pulling against his bonds as he slid this way and that. They were tilting the chair up, hoisting him into place.
King stood before him, whacking his face. Blood flew from the guy’s fingertips. “Now where were we?” The mocking tone was gone. King was growling. “We were going to discuss your lady friend, right?”
Bruno cringed. He’d lost it. He’d mouthed off, and he was going to pay. Whatever this monster had in mind as punishment, it was going to be bad. He just hoped it wasn’t Lily who paid. Let it be him. Not her.
“There are some things that I think you might not know about your lover, Bruno,” King announced. “Most notably, the fact that she is one of my programmed operatives. One of the best, too.”
That phrase had no effect on Bruno. It bounced right off his skull like a hard object, leaving him dazed, thick, confused. Bewildered. “Huh?” he said, stupidly.
“Hobart, set the video to play, please,” King said. “Show him.”
CHAPTER31
Kev killed the car engine with a jerk. “One more time, Zia, from the top. Keep the gun in your purse. Stick to the point. We talk about Bruno, and the jewelry box. Only. Do not call Don Gaetano a pig. Do not call Costantina a whore. You got that straight?”
“But she is!” Zia protested.
“We don’t have time for this!” he flared. “This is about saving Bruno, OK? You care about him, right? So you will begood!”
Zia did the big hurt eyes thing, and Kev turned away from the show, drumming his fingers on the dash in a staccato tattoo. His feet twitched, and there was a stone hard core of fear in his guts.
Petrie and Sean were quiet, but he could tell that Sean was trying not to give in to nervous laughter, his standard coping device. If Sean got the giggles, Kev was shooting his ass up, no mercy.
He flung the door open. “Let’s get this over with.”
They marched through a big landscaped garden in front of the ostentatious house, around a marble fountain surrounded by rose bushes. The fountain was silent and dry but for the dots of rain on the marble rim. At least it was gray. Sunshine would be an insult.
Once on the porch, they rang the bell. An insultingly long amount of time passed, during which they were assessed by whoever was studying the security cameras. One was pointed right at them, mounted under the cornice of the porch roof. The door opened. A burly, dark middle-aged man peered out. “May I help you?” he asked.
Kev opened his mouth, but Zia beat him to it. “I come to see Don Gaetano,” she announced.
The man gave her a blank, unfriendly stare. “That would be my father,” he said. “I’m sorry, but he’s not well enough for visitors today.”
“He’s well enough to see me,” Zia Rosa informed him.
“Oh?” The guy’s eyes sharpened. “And you are?”
“I’m the woman he shoulda married,” Zia announced. “The one who shoulda been your mamma. Tell him that, Michael.”
The guy rocked back as if she’d hit him. The door slammed in their faces. Aw, shit. Great. “Zia,” Kev ground out. “You promised.”
“I didn’t call no one a pig or a whore, did I?”
He didn’t have time to answer before the door jerked open again. This time a much older man stood there, a guy in his eighties. Thickset like his son, but balding, with pitted skin and heavy jowls. He peered through horn-rimmed glasses with a scowl that knit his bushy brows.
