She glares. “And you were going to tell me this when?”
“When you weren’t recovering from a brain injury.”
“My brain is fine.” She taps her temple with her casted hand. “A little rattled, maybe, but fully operational. I want to help. Let me help, Boone.”
The use of my real name still hits me somewhere deep. She only uses it in intimate moments—and apparently when she’s trying to get her way.
“Fine.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “Church is at ten. I’ll fill you in after.”
“Why not during?”
“Because you’re not a member.”
“I’m your lawyer.”
“Who’s currently on medical leave.”
She glares at me, but there’s no real heat in it. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
I snort. “You mean I’m lucky I gave you orgasms.”
She spreads her legs. “You’d be luckier if you did it again.”
“Well, who could refuse such a tempting offer?”
An hour later I finally roll out of bed, leaving a sweaty, smiling Josie behind.
Church is tense.
Steel stands at the head of the table, laptop open, walking us through what he’s found. The kid’s come a long way from the nervous prospect who could barely make eye contact. He’s a big guy—the kind of big that makes drunk idiots think twice, though the beard and glasses soften the effect. I’ve seen him let Hawk’s twins braid tinsel into his hair without complaint, but I’ve also seen him on the range. Kid shoots like he was born with a rifle in his hands.
Now he holds the room’s attention like he was born to that, too.
“I managed to crack their security feeds,” he explains, turning the laptop so everyone can see. “They’re running a drug processing operation out of the old textile warehouse on Route 9. But that’s not the interesting part.”
He pulls up another image—grainy surveillance footage of two men talking in what looks like an office.
“The guy on the left is Ivan. We already knew he was their muscle. But the guy on the right?” Steel zooms in on a face I recognize far too well. Every muscle in my body locks.
Fuck.
“Vincent Caruso,” Steel confirms. The man we handed to the FBI on a silver platter months ago.
“How the hell is he still walking around?” Hawk’s voice is tight with disbelief.
“Good question.” Steel shakes his head. “Either the feds fumbled the case, or Caruso’s got friends in higher places than we thought.”
The room goes silent.
“Fuck,” Tank mutters.
“This changes things,” Lee says. “We’re dealing with people who have the resources to make us all disappear.”
“Which is why we need to be smart about this.” I lean forward, studying the footage. “Steel, how solid is this evidence?”
“Solid enough for a federal case. I’ve got timestamps, facial recognition matches, even some audio. They’re not exactly careful when they think no one’s watching.”
My hands curl into fists against my thighs. We’d already given the local feds everything—the footage, evidence of Vincent paying off cops, the whole goddamn conspiracy. And this bastard is still walking on my turf.
