“You know what? Yeah. Fuck him.”
Silas shakes his head. “Oh no. We never fuck the mark. That’s just gross.”
I guess that answers my question.
“That’s not what I meant, but it’s nice to see you have standards.”
“Who are we without our standards,” he says, repeating a sentiment Baba has shared with me throughout my life.
Silas winks at me, then checks his weapon. I do the same, then we exit his car and cross the street. The front door is formidable, but one door on the four-car garage is open. I’m guessing that’s our entry point.
I’d be concerned about security, but given the weapons and Silas, we could take down a small army before I’d worry about not having enough firepower. Gotta say, I don’t hate walking into a situation knowing I’m gonna win. It’s not like this is enjoyable, exactly, but?—
My self-satisfied internal monologue is cut short by an all-too-familiar country drawl.
“Question, Silas,” Dad asks. “Are you this chatty on all ofyour operations, or are you just trying to show your cousin a good time?”
We spin on our heels, and Silas drops his chin to his chest. “Well…shit.”
The one phrase you never want to hear from either your barber or a serial killer.
Re-checking his weapon, Sy asks, “What’s the score, Uncle? Are you joining us today?”
“Sorry, kids. Preston Whitaker is off-limits.”
“Like hell he is,” I whisper furiously. “He had Truett kidnapped. He had his own son killed. This guy is the dictionary definition of someone who deserves to die.”
I mean, I’m new to this, but that’s easy math.
Anders takes in the house, his jaw tight. “You’re not wrong. But everyone has a boss, and I’ll remind you that Seth Wakefield is mine. He says Preston is off-limits, so he’s off-limits.”
“Why?” I shake my head. “Surely Wakefield doesn’t think you’d hold back from the guy who is trying to get to your kid through someone else.”
Dad lets out a low and slow breath, and I wonder if he understands how terrifying he looks right now. “I don’t know the ultimate why, but for us, Preston’s the one concession Wakefield’s asked for in return for looking the other way.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“I know, but I’m afraid that’s as good as it gets.” Dad cracks his neck, then mutters, “I should’ve made your baba do this.”
He takes another calming breath, speaking to himself as if trying to talk himself down from the ledge. But I don’t want that. I want Anders Fucking Bash to grab Preston Whitaker and throw him into the fucking abyss.
Before I can argue my point, Dad holds up his hand. “We’ve taken way worse people off the map, provided cures that no pharmaceutical company would profit from, and created greenenergy that would send your typical oil and gas people into a spiral.”
He says this like a mantra, like something he’s had to repeat to himself a few times.
Silas wrinkles his nose, then puts away his gun.
I look between the two stone-cold murderers, dumbfounded. “Seriously? We’re not going after him?”
Silas pats my cheek. “Oh, look at you. So sad that you don’t get to murder the bad man.” He turns to Dad. “So, what about the nephew? Is he on the same protected list?”
Dad’s hand goes to his chest, his look best described as stricken.
“How thoughtless of me. Knowing I’d have to let Preston go, I got the nephew on the way in.” He reaches out, grabbing Silas by the shoulder. “I really am very sorry. I didn’t realize he was on your list. Absolutely should’ve checked with you first.”
Silas looks at his shoulder. “Why are you being this way?”
Dad withdraws his hand. “Why am I being what way?”
