I wait for the meaning to hit. When it doesn’t, I look up at Jasper, and he slides something else across the table. A newspaper clipping.
“Grand opening of La Verdis Italian Ristorante was a success…” I skim until my finger freezes. I jab at the photo. “Wait. I know this asshole.”
“That’s Savino Biondini?—”
“Head of the Italian mob,” I finish. My stomach tightens. “What the fuck does this have to do with Alma?”
“This”—Jasper taps the man standing front and center—“is Cesidio Biondini. I had a friend dig into his finances.”
He slides over another sheet.
“That’s a lot of fucking zeros.” My eyes snag on the numbers. I flip the page. Dates stretch across nearly ten years. Every deposit is made out to Melissa Gutierrez.
“Shit. You think they’re Alma’s real family?” I ask.
I’m not sure how happy I’d be having holidays with the Italian mob, much less the asshole who tortured me for days, but I guess I’d make it work.
“No,” Jasper says. “I ran the DNA you gave me against all three brothers. No match.”
I lean back, slightly relieved, until another question emerges.
“Then why help Missy?”
Jasper doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at the papers, jaw tight.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But Salma is married to Alfredo Biondini—their cousin.”
He finally looks up at me. “If you want answers, I’d start there.”
_______
“And Alma doesn’t know about the Biondini brothers?” Adrian asks as I explain everything to him.
“Nope. Not a clue.”
“Man. That’s fucking wild though. Like Alma’s mom kidnapping her and shit,” Ricky says from behind us.
“And the cat? You don’t think she’s gonna be upset about you bringing Don Cheetos with us?” Adrian’s eyes narrow through the rear-view mirror at Lurch sitting in the far back of the van petting Don Cheetos.
“I’ll apologize later,” I reply.
So maybe I’ve been bringing Don Cheetos along with us without Alma’s approval, but I doubt she’d care. They secretly only tolerate each other, and Don Cheetos was not born to be a house cat. He was made for ruthless missions and the love of someone who secretly wants to take over the world. Also, Lurch eats less nut rolls when Don Cheetos is around.
“I fucking hate cats,” Adrian grumbles.
“He’s our mascot!” Ricky blurts.
“We’re not a fucking football team, why would we need a mascot?” Adrian retorts.
“Wow. Okay, Frankenstein. Lemme guess, next you’re gonna say there’s no I in team,” Ricky mocks.
I bust up laughing at the nicknameFrankenstein.Thalia would call Adrian that behind his back,and well,usually to his face too. Her newest insult, though, the one she’s been using since the whole family dinner turned violent—“Hijo de Patti.”
“There’s no I in ‘get the fuck out the van’ either, but your big back is still here,” Adrian fires back.
“Big back?” Ricky gasps. “How fucking dare you body shame me!”
“Niños. Tranquilo.” I check my gun as Adrian slows. “There.”
