Maybe it’s not the manbun. Maybe it’s the treasure hunt, and I need it to be over.
“Yes, I unfortunately know this guy,” I tell Sloane.
Chuck’s nowhere to be seen.
Likely because nobody in our circle likes dealing with Uncle Guido, but we all know he’s harmless.
Mostly.
Scared the ever-loving fuck out of Tripp a time or two when he first hooked up with Lila, and even I don’t know why Uncle Guido had to leave the CIA, but he’s still mostly harmless.
“Who is he?” she asks.
“This is John.” I don’t take my eyes off of Uncle Guido. “He’s a menace.”
“How did you get in here?” Sloane demands.
“I can answer that for you, sweetheart, or I can—oof.”
I blink.
Blink again.
Uncle Guido’s bent double as my metal water bottle clatters to the floor beneath him.
I look at Sloane.
Unlike me, she doesn’t hold back. She growls at Uncle Guido, “Do. Not. Call. Me. Sweetheart.”
My backpack is one water bottle lighter, and it happened so fast, I barely noticed. “Did you just maim him with a water bottle?”
Is that reverence in my voice?
I do believe that’s reverence in my voice.
She turns a glower on me. “Get rid of him.”
“Jesus H. Christ on a salami panini,” he pants. “I think you broke a rib.”
I grin. “Hope you want lifetime season tickets to the Fireballs,” I tell Sloane. “When Tripp hears about this?—”
“You want the fucking diary or not?” Guido’s still hunched over, panting.
“I want you tonot fucking break into my museum,” Sloane snaps. “Davis, break his fingers.”
Huh.
Look at that.
I’m smiling so broadly that my cheeks hurt.
Hasn’t happened in a while.
Hence it doesn’t take much to make them hurt.
“I’d like the diary, and I’m not sure breaking his fingers is the fastest route to getting it,” I tell Sloane.
“How do you know he has it?”
