“What’s wrong?” I asked, unable to read the message from where I sat.
“Sharp is here.”
“That fucker who shot you?” I jumped out of the chair, ready to fucking shoot him back.
“Possibly.” Golden stood and closed the space between us, dragging his lips across my forehead. If he was trying to calm me down, it was working. “But he’s also my boss. And a friend.”
I dragged my tongue across the front of my teeth and jerked my chin toward the door. Golden kissed my forehead again and padded back into the house. I picked up his coffee and his phone, and found him in the living room with his boss…the man who’d told him to kill me, the man who might have shot him.
I passed the phone and the coffee off to Golden and sat on the other end of the couch, folding my arms across my chest and offering up an annoyed glare at the slight, blond man who stood in front of the TV.
“How utterly domestic,” he observed, stare drifting over Golden’s coffee mug, “considering someone wants you dead.”
“I’m not dead yet,” Golden countered with a smirk, a blunt reminder that the man who came to heel for me was a fucking hurricane.
“And you.” Sharp turned his attention to me. “You’re clearly Sandro Rosetti, alive and in the flesh.”
“Don’t call me Sandro.”
“Sure thing, Rosetti. Point being you’re alive.”
“So are you.” I arched a warning brow.
“It’s a nice life when no one wants you dead.”
“Who said no one wants you dead?”
“Sage.” Golden pursed his lips and gave me an absolutely unamused look from his side of the couch.
“Like I said,” Sharp continued, “utterly domestic.”
“What brings you around, Sharp?” Golden asked, trying to get to the point of the visit.
“I saw you were back home after a long week away. Wanted to check in, see how you were healing.”
“I’m in good hands.” Golden sipped his coffee. “Any leads on the shooter?”
“He’s right in front of you,” I grumbled, and Golden gave me the same look a second time.
“Actually, yes.” Sharp pulled a short stack of pictures out of his back pocket and handed them to me, not Golden.
My blood chilled when I saw the first picture, and I flipped through the stack quickly, the pictures getting clearer and closer with every snap the photographer had managed.
“He does,” Sharp said, his stare flickering from Golden to me.
My head jerked up and I narrowed my eyes at him. Sharp was carrying—I could tell by the lopsided way his arms hung at his sides—but he was a small man. I could take him if I wanted to, and in that moment, I really fucking wanted to.
“Who is it?” Golden asked.
I threw the pictures down on the coffee table, shaking my head and frowning.
“There’s no way,” I said. “Where are these even from?”
“Down the street from my house. The day he got shot.”
“Who is it?” Golden asked again, turning to face me head on.
“My dad.”
