When I returned, he had my gun pieced back together and had set to work on my 1911, the holster discarded over the back of an empty chair. I gathered the seat was meant to be mine, so I sat down. He pushed his Sig Sauer across the table, then gestured at the cleaning supplies in the center of the table.
“The hit on you has been called off,” I told him.
That had him looking up, his eyes widening before falling back to their normal appearance.
“But now it’s on you,” he said.
“Apparently.”
“Same person?”
I shrugged. “That I don’t know.”
“How did you get shot?” Sage asked.
“By a gun. I told you.”
“Elaborate, Golden,” he hissed, slamming the receiver on my 1911 back into place.
“I went to Sharp’s house; we talked a bit. My back was to the window. It shattered, there were two gunshots.” I flapped my arm like a chicken wing. “And then this.”
“What about the guy outside?” Sage’s shoulders tensed, and he had such a tight grip on the pieces of my 1911, his knuckles were white.
“He got away,” I said.
Sage frowned and diverted his attention back to cleaning my gun.
“What about you?” I asked. “Do you still think it was your dad?”
Sage leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Not as much as I did before,” he admitted.
This was news.
When he was holed up at my house with a knife wound in his gut, he’d been pretty sure it was his dad behind it. So sure, on more than one occasion, we’d talked about taking his dad out on account of it. I was glad I hadn’t made a move preemptively, because murdering Sage’s dad if he wasn’t the one who’d tried to get Sage killed, probably would not have scored me many points with the man.
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah. The day after I left your house I went home and we had a talk.”
“And you believe whatever he told you?” I wondered what it was like to have that much trust in a person.
“We see a little more eye to eye now than we did before.” Sage gave me a tight smile and pushed the chair back. He went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Isn’t it a little early to drink?” I asked, spraying down the spring on his Sig before reassembling it.
“I’m Italian,” he answered, setting a glass in front of me and filling it halfway. “This isn’t Chianti, though.”
“That’s a relief,” I teased, reaching for the glass. “But if not your dad, who?”
“Anthony Molinaro Jr. has been spending a bit more time around than I’d like,” Sage said, swirling his wine before pouring a healthy swallow into his mouth. “But he never struck me as having a mind for business.”
“For wine?” I arched a brow.
“For wine.”
I didn’t know how deep the Rosetti Vineyard business went, and it was probably better that way. I knew enough. A man didn’t end up like Sage without a background comparable to mine. Though, I’d had a good upbringing. I was smart, always top of my class, but I’d gotten distracted in my early twenties, fell in with some people I shouldn’t have, then made some decisions and deals that saved me from a life on the run.
I didn’t like to think about it, and I talked about it even less. Sage hadn’t asked and I didn’t think he ever would, which was why I would grant him the same courtesy. There was room for secrets between us, but not lies. So better to not be put in the position to have to lie in the first place.
