He hadn’t seen Noah in two years, and he’d forgotten how massive the guy was. Six-four and tattooed from neck to toe, he made the hardest guy at Toby’s gym look like a kindergartener. And it wasn’t a front. Noah was an ex-biker, the son of a chapter president, and he’d done hard time for assault.
When he’d helped Noah confront a guy stealing from Silver Daughters a few years ago, Toby had seen up close what the man was capable of. He, Noah, and Scott had barged into the tattooist’s house the same way Noah had just barged into his, demanding explanations and repayment. It hadn’t gotten violent, but if it had, Toby knew Noah would have torn Gil limb from limb.
He was brutally loyal to the DaSilva family, and while Toby had once considered him a friend, there weren’t too many friendly reasons why Noah would be illegally entering his house at two in the morning, stinking of Irish whiskey.
“Noah,” he repeated. “What’s happening? Is everything okay?”
His uninvited guest was in no hurry to respond; he paced to the nearest wall and examined the Alexander Marquis painting Maisy had hung there.
“Very nice,” he said in a voice as low as it was petrifying. “Done well for yourself, haven’t you?”
Toby’s gut thrummed. He drew himself up to his full height, wishing he’d put on shoes or a shirt or had a crowbar nearby. “Do we have a problem?”
Noah laughed, a soft, menacing sound that did nothing to ease Toby’s nerves.
“Youmight have a problem.”
“And that is?”
Noah crossed the hall to study the Nadine Faraj watercolour. “I dunno. Been doing anything stupid, Tobes?”
Cold panic flooded his chest, and he wanted to shout that he had no fucking clue what Noah was talking about, but he also remembered the ride to Gil’s place; Noah telling him and Scott to keep quiet as much as possible. As Toby had seen it, the implication had been that talking too much weakened your position. He kept his mouth shut.
“You gonna answer my question?” Noah asked.
Again, he stayed quiet.
Noah’s grin became sharklike. “Always were a quick study, weren’t you? But shutting up isn’t gonna help you here. So why don’t you tell me why you think I’m paying you a visit?”
Toby remembered the afternoon he’d accidentally overheard Noah on the phone to Edgar DaSilva. A faint bubble of hope swelled in his chest. Maybe this was about Edgar? “Tabby’s dad?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
Noah swelled before his eyes, his expression somehow growing colder. “No. And since you’re fucking about, I’ll ask you another question. How’d you end up losing it? You pay someone or what?”
All the air rushed from Toby’s lungs. This had to be about Tabby. Noah knew they were screwing. Had she told him, or did he figure it out? “You… what?”
“Nice try.” Noah moved closer, his long legs swinging in a parody of a careless stroll. “Doubt Tabby was the first, but then you probably wanted to get some practice in before you took a run at her, huh?”
Toby rubbed his elbow, his palm rasping over dry skin. “I don’t... how is that any of your business?”
Noah paused, mid-stride, one boot hovering. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he said automatically. “I don’t know.”
“Thought so.” Noah slowly lowered his boot to the marble, toe to heel. “How long’ve you been fucking Tabby?”
Again, he considered keeping quiet, but clearly that would only piss Noah off more. Not only was Noah drunk and fuming, Toby used to buy the guy beers to get him to talk about biker shit. Noah had once been a dead-to-rights enforcer. He’d broken a guy’s fingers to get him to talk. Held him in place as he howled in agony, then kept right on going. Toby might have put on muscle and done a little MMA, but he didn’t have a prayer if it came to blows. He’d need to talk his way out of this—a prospect as reassuring as a paper shield.
“I-we’ve been hooking up for a while,” he told Noah. “But whatever you’re mad about, it’s not a thing. Me and Tabby are… we’re actually…”
Noah’s fake smile slid off his face. “Spit it out.”
“We’re together,” he managed. “We-we’re into each other. Whatever you think’s wrong, it isn’t. It’s all good.”
“Really?” Noah plucked a brass lion statue from a side table and tossed it from hand to tattooed hand. “Are you sure?”
Toby wondered how much the lion weighed and if it was hard enough to smash through his forehead. “Yeah, I mean, as far as I know.”
“As far as you know…” Noah chuckled. “Did you know that Tabby’s got bruises all over her? Has for weeks? Or ‘a while’ as you might say?”
