Their lips met in a light kiss just as boot stomps hurried across the courtyard. Emory and Amelia turned as Jack rounded the fountain but halted mid-stride, his eyes shifting between them.
“Miri wants to talk,” Jack told Emory and backed away in an awkward offer of privacy but loitered near the fountain.
“Fuck,” Emory sighed and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
With a crestfallen smile, Amelia released him. “It’s okay. You shouldn’t keep Mirabelle waiting.”
Emory left her in the courtyard but turned back before he reached the door. Ignoring Jack, Amelia blew him a kiss. It thrilled Emory far more than several real kisses had. Those were cheap, ephemeral bliss. Nothing like his heart still racing, dizzy as he drifted inside.
“What was that?” Jack asked as they ascended the stairs. He reeked of cheap whiskey.
There was no easy way to package it. The comedown left Emory sapped but sated, a bit like the ecstatic fog after incredible sex.
“Progress,” was all he said.
“She sang?”
“She confirmed what Viktor told us. Everything else we already knew.”
“Good. We can cut her loose then.”
The declarative incensed. Emory shot daggers in the dark. Jack didn’t notice, only delighted himself at the brilliant dig.
“I’ll make that decision,” Emory said curtly. “Not you.”
TWENTY-THREE
EMORY
In Emory’s office, the desk lamp cast misshapen shadows around the room, and Mirabelle sat coiled up like a spring in the desk chair. With her legs wrapped tight over one another, she hugged her knees to her chest.
“What’s going on?” Emory asked.
Jack leaned against the edge of the desk next to a half-spent bottle of whiskey. He wouldn’t be the one to say it—whateveritwas—so he glanced at Mirabelle who regarded Emory with familiar heat. It simmered behind her eyes first, then fired up the breath from her lungs.
“We shouldn’t have been there today! This wouldn’t have happened!”
Emory shut the door and met her searing accusation with hushed austerity. There was no need to raise voices in a house of restless souls.
“You’re not that naïve, Mirabelle. It could’ve happened here and could’ve been a lot worse. What happened to Gio?—”
“Could’ve been avoided!” Mirabelle sprung open, her legs and arms unwrapping all at once. “Scumstache is a rat. He sold us out. He murdered Gio! I want him dead!”
“Enough,” Emory said, and his distorted shadow moved across the room as he paced to the window behind his desk. “Disco and Corey are looking for him. When they find him, we’ll make him talk. Once we have answers, we can take the fight to the Velascos.”
With two fingers, Emory separated slats of the blinds and peered through the crack. He didn’t know what he expected to find. The night revealed nothing of consequence, just a streetlamp struggling to fill the dark, not unlike the last time he saw his brother.
“Miri doesn’t know what Viktor told us,” Jack said. “You need to tell her.”
Emory turned from the window. Mirabelle was already staring at him.
“Tell me what?” she asked with a haunting stillness, as if something in her already knew.
Emory took Mirabelle’s hands as he knelt in front of her. Malformed and twisted, the shadows at the edge of the room seemed to darken. He hadn’t rehearsed how he might tell her the news, and perhaps that was for the best.
“Ivan. He’s?—”
“Alive,” Jack cut in with biting precision. “He’s alive.”
