“And I’m sticking to it.”
“Huh. You might be surprised to learn we’ve got one of your kidnappers in custody.”
“He gettin’ out anytime soon?” Suds moves in closer, no doubt picturing a come-to-Jesus meeting in the guy’s future.
“Not likely, but I’ll let you know.” While the two most important men in my life share a silent blood pact, I focus on getting my friend out of jail.
“Dad, can you see if the kidnapper has any ties to Dahlyla Stevenson or a Simon Pershing?”
“I will… Hold on, your mother is grabbing the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
Damn, I was hoping to wait until I’d slept for at least a week before dealing with her. “Hi Mom.”
“Call me on Sky I need to see your face.”
“It’s Skype, Mom, and I promise to chat after I get a little shuteye.” Cringing, I take a selfie and view my image.
Dark circles line my eyes and my hair sticks out all over the place. If she saw me like this, she’d have a conniption.
Undaunted, my mother carries on as if I’d agreed. “Your cousins and I will meet you at your place. I’m calling an Umber.”
“Uber, Mom. It’s an Uber.” Muting the phone, I sigh and roll my eyes.
“Whatever. When will you be home?”
“I’m with Suds. He doesn’t think we should go back to the apartment.”
“Nonsense. Your Uncle Vinny has three men out front. Your friend Frankie is stationed on the roof next door. I offered to sit for Joey, so he’s outside with a couple of his boys. And, your father insisted on extra patrol cars. You’re safer in Brooklyn. Come home.”
Safer? Holy shit. It sounds more like the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. “Tell everyone to stand down, Mommy. I’m fine. I promise. Don’t worry.”
“Hmph. I’m not hanging up until I see your face.”
I text her a picture taken a couple weeks ago. “See?”
“Bene. But call me tomorrow.”
“Si, si. I love you. Ciao, ciao, ciao.”
Suds overhears the whole thing and laughs. “You shouldn’t lie to your momma like that.”
Shaking my head, I roll my eyes, and cross myself like Mia. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Did you hear? We may never be able to go home again. So, where are we with the band manager? What was his name again?”
“Simon Pershing. Slate thinks it best if you question him.” My tough guy tugs me close with a heavy arm over my shoulder, his fingers near my chin.
“Me? Why is that?” I kiss his hand and crane my neck toward his face.
His lips meet the top of my head. “The shock of seeing you back in the states should set him on edge. Hopefully, he’ll slip up and honestly, sugar? You are Suds and Sam’s primary interrogator.”
“You’re just saying that because you want to fuck me again.”
Grinning, he slaps my behind. “Damn straight. Let’s go. Time’s a-wastin’.”
Simon Pershing lives in the East Hamptons, on the tip of Long Island, and no one wants to drive.
We wake Lucky, toss a coin, and he loses. “Bloody hell.”
Three hours later, I’ve managed to brush the snarls out of my hair, don enough makeup to be presentable, and tape a mic to my chest.
