“Except for the one woman who could put our entire organization at war.” Renzo glares at me. “You’ve not only taken her in but decided tomarryher, apparently.”
My anger flares like wildfire at his blatant disregard for Danika.
I rise to my feet. “You’re goddamn right I’m marrying her, which means that’s my futurewifeyou’re talking about. I suggest you remember that.”
He starts forward. “You threatening me?”
DiAngelo inserts himself between us, ushering my brother backward. “This isn’t getting us anywhere, and I’m not here to listen to you two argue. Tommy, you need to be more respectful of yourbossby keeping him informed. Renzo, Tommy’s doing the best he can in a shit situation.”
Doing the best he can—as if either one of them could magically handle the situation any better.
“If you don’t like my decisions,” I direct at my brother in a voice carved from stone. “You’re welcome to cut me loose, but Danika is mine. I’m not walking away from her simply to avoid pissing off Biba. You need to make a call about what’s best for the organization. If that means us parting ways, so be it.”
Sante is a brick wall beside me, arms crossed and support unyielding.
Renzo looks from me to Sante, then back before looking away with a sigh. “This is Sicily all over again, isn’t it?”
“If you mean I’m refusing to abandon the people I care about, then I guess so.”
He studies me long and hard. “If she means that much to you, I suppose we need to come up with a plan.”
“About fucking time,” DiAngelo mutters. “I need a drink. Anyone else?” He heads to the liquor cabinet at the behest of three grumbled requests.
Sante and I ease back onto the sofa, a degree of tension melting from my shoulders into the soft cushions. The worst part is over, and I haven’t been disowned. I would have been surprised if Renzo cut me loose, but it was a possibility, and I was more concerned about it than I realized.
“So,” Renzo begins, “as I see it, we have two immediate concerns: getting Danika’s grandmother back and finding a way to appease Biba. Any other major issues we need to plan for thatI’m missing?” He looks at me pointedly, getting in one more silent jab.
I mentally roll my eyes. Technically, I needed to come up with a place to stash Danika’s mom as well, but I can’t bring myself to mention it now. I’ll figure that out on my own. “That’s it. I’m good to retrieve Gran on my own if I can just get some help figuring out where she is.” I look over at DiAngelo, taking my turn at a silent prod.
He brings over four highball glasses of scotch and distributes them. “I don’t like to make promises, but I can probably figure out where they’ve stashed her.”
Renzo sniffs at his glass. “If anyone can find her, it’s you.”
“I’d owe you,” I tell D gratefully.
“You already owe me,” he mutters.
I nod, ready to own my obligations. “I think it goes without saying that Biba will be angrier than ever if we pull this off.”
Renzo nods. “I’ll reach out and see what I can do to negotiate peace terms, but not until you get her back. We don’t need him sending her back to us in pieces as a warning.”
Silence grips the room as we all digest the horror of that scenario.
Sante clears his throat. “I can always give Malone a call to see if the cops have any new info that might be helpful.”
“You think he’d give you anything?” Renzo asks.
“It’d help if I had something to offer in return.” His eyes lock with Renzo’s in a wordless conversation that makes me uncomfortable because if there are lines to read between, I don’t see them and have no clue what’s passing between my brother and my best friend.
Eventually, Renzo ends the communication with a drink from his glass. “I got word recently that the man known as Reaper has a scar across his throat. Seems he’s as hard to kill as they say.”
Interesting. Something like that should help identify him. It’d be pretty noticeable unless he runs around wearing a turtleneck in July, which would be equally as unusual.
Even more interesting is that Renzo has offered information to give the cops on a rival organization … for me. He’s set aside one of his steadfast rules, which he never would have done if I hadn’t needed help. Despite all our disagreements, my brother is putting my needs above those of the Moretti family—it’s a move that could get him killed if word got out, and a risk taken on my behalf that I won’t soon forget.
I lift my chin in silent appreciation.
Sante takes out his phone and dials a number. “Malone, you got a minute? Good. We’re dealing with a situation and could use an exchange of information, if you’re willing.” He stands and starts to slowly pace. While he talks, the rest of us sip our drinks and listen. The second he disconnects, I down the last of my drink and lean forward.
