Matteo’s my brother in everything but blood. My closest thing to a conscience. Also, and most importantly, the son of the man who would put a bullet in my skull if he ever learned what secrets I’m keeping.
“No,” I say flatly. “He’ll want to question him, and I’m not sure what this idiot knows. He said he knows I’m distracted . . .”
“That could mean anything.”
“It could also mean they know everything.” I don’t say anything about Victoria, but by the way Rafe’s eyes narrow just slightly, he understands what I mean.
“Then we keep it clean,” he says.
“We kill him fast,” I correct, stepping toward the light spilling from the open door.
Rafe huffs a laugh. “Want to handle Boston on our own? Quietly.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell my uncle I want to spread my wings and handle this. Then we’re going to fuck shit up.”
Rafe snorts. “You planning to kill them all?”
I slide my sunglasses on and smile. “Not all at once,” I answer. “I’m not greedy.”
Rafe turns to walk in the opposite direction to start making calls.
“Rafe?”
“Yeah?”
“Get me everything on the Gallaghers,” I order, voice carrying across the distance. “Ports, fronts, lieutenants, accountants, girlfriends, enemies. Including when they shit and what type of toilet paper is used.”
Rafe’s smirk turns wicked. “This should be fun.”
I open the steel door to leave. “Everything.”
A few moments later, I’m in my car, hands on the wheel.
Connor Gallagher wants to be a problem.
I know exactly how to solve problems.
Permanently.
39
Victoria
I findthe asshole in the foyer, shrugging into a black jacket.
Guess he’s going somewhere today . . . again.
It’s not that I like his presence, but I don’t like being alone in this big estate.
At least when he’s here, my brain is busy thinking of ways to avoid him. If he’s gone, I’m just bored.
Lorenzo doesn’t notice me at first, or more likely, he does, but chooses to ignore me.
“Where are you going?” The question leaves my mouth sharper than I intend because apparently, my self-preservation clocked out with my wedding vows.
He is still mid-button. Slowly, he turns his head like a lion acknowledging a fly that is trying to annoy him.
Lorenzo’s gaze slides over me. It moves from my head to my feet, then trails back up. It feels like he’s cataloging me, for what? I don’t know . . . maybe to measure my casket?
