How the hell was I supposed to know it would do that?!” Daisy’s words have me turning my head in her direction as she and her friend keep their heads ducked together where they’re sitting on the couch in the open living room of my penthouse. The blood on the side of her face has been washed away, and her color is much better now that she’s home, even if the bruising on her face is growing darker.
“I don’t have any experience with guns. It just”—Daisy flails her hands in front of her and then lifts her pointer finger up to her friend and lowers her thumb—“bang! Went off.”
“Theirs is an interesting friendship,” Dante comments lightly as he, too, watches the two women.
Daisy seems to be different from all of the other women I’ve had in my life. I can’t help but wonder if she’s the norm in America or if I’ve somehow found myself legally tied to a Pomeranian masquerading as a human. She can’t cook. Shetrips on air—I can’t count the number of times I’ve kept her from taking a header when she’s just walking through the penthouse. Though, even with the mess she often makes of my kitchen, it’s still kind of nice to come home to someone else. Is that why she reminds me of a puppy?
“Are all women like this?” I ask him, curious. After all, he’s far more familiar with the female gender. Despite his preference for technology, he’s just as well-built as I am and in no danger of going a night without company if he wants it.
He shakes his head. “Not from what I’ve seen. Women are catty creatures. These two… they almost remind me of you and me.”
I blink at him as I hear her friend’s response. “You’re the one who took that anatomy class in college,” she says. “You played with the dead people. I swore he was moving after you shot him, and you told me I was crazy.”
“That’s because you are—and I did notplaywith dead people. I dissected them. There’s a difference.”
“In what way do they remind you of us?” I demand, sure I should be offended by the insinuation. They’re not crying or screaming or panicking about the man they murdered—or rather, the man that Daisy murdered. Instead, they’re just sitting there, talking about the act as if it was an inconvenience that ruined what was, otherwise, a wonderful day.
“Those women are civilians,” Dante says. They certainly don’t sound like it right now, but I don’t say as much. “Put into a position where a friend kills someone in front of them, most civilians wouldn’t feel comfortable enough ribbing them. From what I gather, they seem more worried about the other thanthemselves. They’re tight.”
He’s right, but his words bring about another piece of information. “Her friend was the one who insisted she call me,” I say. Dante’s amused expression fades, and he looks back over at the two women with a keener eye. His attention shifts from Daisy to the friend—Michelle.
“She knows about us, then,” he guesses. When I don’t immediately respond, Dante glances my way. “What are you going to do about it?”
I release a low breath and turn my gaze to the wall of windows instead of the women. “I don’t know yet.” We’re lucky that her friend isn’t a do-gooder looking to turn her friend’s new husband in to the cops. As much as I want to make Don Luciani happy and proud of me, even he wouldn’t have an argument against getting rid of potential threats to our organization. Daisy’s friend would have had to go, and even though Daisy knows very little about what I actually do—about the family business per se—she could quickly become a liability if not taught properly.
For some reason, though, I find the idea of Daisy being angry at me because I killed her friend upsetting. Almost as upsetting as finding her in that damned alley, covered in blood and shaking and bruised because some asshole attacked her.
“They’re in same boat now,” Dante murmurs, almost absently.
“What?” I look at him, frowning.
“They killed a man,” he points out. “The likelihood of them going to the cops over Isa is now pretty much null and void. They owe us for taking care of the situation for them.”
He’s right, but thinking of my own wife as owing me alsodoesn’t sit right. In fact, it makes my stomach clench and irritation flood my veins. So, I change the subject. “Do we have any more information on the man?”
“He wasn’t a common street thief, that’s for damn sure,” Dante answers after a beat. “The silencer on the gun Daisy handed over made that clear, as well as the quality of the weapon.”
I’d already figured that out, but knowing for certain only serves to piss me off.
Michelle’s tone, slightly deeper than Daisy’s, echoes across the room despite the fact that it’s obvious the two of them are attempting to be quiet. “The difference is that those dead people were dead when you got them. This one wasn’t.”
Daisy’s reply is instantaneous. “It was an accident. It’s not like I meant to. Whomeansto kill people?”
Dante is looking at me, his eyes glittering with renewed amusement. I glare at him—at least until he nudges his chin back toward the woman. I glance over my shoulder and see both Daisy and Michelle staring at me. Daisy’s last words repeat in my mind.
Whomeansto kill people?
Unable to help myself, I bare my teeth into the facsimile of a smile. Michelle’s eyes widen and she swings them away. Not Daisy, though. Not my brave, incredibly troublesome wife. She merely blinks at me and then offers me a small smile before turning back to her friend.
Damn if I don’t like the way she reacts, too. Not scared. Not shaking or cowering, but just… unaffected. Being in her proximity for the last few days has been hell on my equilibrium.From the soft, sweet scent of her that’s taken up residence in the open air to the cluttered differences in my once-spotless apartment—the romance novels, the résumés strewn about my kitchen counter and coffee table—the woman has got me unsettled and… curious. I really do need to get myself under control.
Shaking my head, I return my attention to Dante, who arches a brow. With a growl, I reach for my cup on the counter and lift it to my lips. After downing the last vestiges of the coffee he made when we brought the girls back, I wipe my mouth and set the cup down.
“Talk,” I snap. “Do we have any details on who he was? Who sent him?”
Dante’s face relaxes back into a neutral expression. “He had a family insignia tattooed on his chest,” he tells me.
“Who?” My hands clamp on the counter lip as I lean back against it. I have an annoying feeling that I’m not going to be surprised by his answer.
