“Closed casket,” Davey reminded them quietly. “The report said the remains were... not viewable.”
“So what, they just sent an empty box? Or someone else entirely?”
“I don’t know,” Davey admitted. “There was a DNA match, but... DNA can be faked if you have the right connections.”
Dom felt like the floor was shifting beneath his feet. “Does Cade know? Is that why he left? Because he found out Brennan was alive and with Praetorian?”
A muscle ticked in Davey’s jaw. “I don’t know what Cade knows.”
“Jesus.” Elliot dragged his hands through his sandy brown hair, then locked his hands behind his head and exhaled in a rush. “We need to tell the family.”
“No,” Davey said.
“No?” Dom and Elliot repeated simultaneously.
“What do you mean, no?” Dom demanded. “Weston and Tessa have been grieving their brother for two years. Uncle Cam and Aunt Eva buried their son. And now we find out he might be alive, and you want to keep it from them?”
“I want to verify before we tear open those wounds,” Davey countered. “Think about it, Dom. Sabin was in bad shape when Praetorian had him. He was cycling through sedatives and neurological primers. Two broken fingers. Days without realsleep or proper food. The resemblance between Brennan and Cade has always been uncanny—they always looked more like twins than brothers. It could have been Cade that Sabin saw.”
“Sabin knows Cade,” Dom argued. “He wouldn’t mistake one for the other.”
“Under normal circumstances, no. But Sabin wasn’t under normal circumstances.”
“What about the tattoo?”
“A phoenix neck tattoo isn’t exactly unique,” Davey pointed out. “We verify first, then we tell the family.”
Dom opened his mouth to argue, but snapped it closed again when the door opened, and Tessa poked her head in. She eyed the three of them suspiciously.
“Everything okay in here?
“Yeah,” Davey said.
“Uh-huh.” She clearly didn’t believe him, but she let it drop. “Dom, you’re late for physical therapy.”
Shit. The last thing he needed right now was to be poked and prodded by medical staff while his mind was spinning with the bomb Sabin had dropped.
“Can’t it wait?”
Tessa raised an eyebrow. “Sure, if you want that shoulder to heal wrong and spend the rest of your life with limited mobility. Your call.”
Dom looked back at his brothers. “We’re not done talking about this.”
“I know,” Davey replied, and for a brief moment, Dom saw the weight his oldest brother carried—the impossible choices, the constant pressure of leadership. “But Tessa’s right. Go to PT. This can wait.”
twenty-seven
Dom grittedhis teeth as the physical therapist stretched his arm past the point of comfort into the realm of genuine pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead while the man pushed his shoulder through its limited range of motion, fighting scar tissue that seemed determined to lock the joint permanently in place. Three weeks since the bullet tore through muscle and bone, and his recovery was nowhere near where he needed it to be—especially not if he wanted back in the field anytime soon.
“Two more,” the therapist said, unmoved by Dom’s grimace.
“You said that three reps ago,” he grumbled, but submitted to the torture anyway. His left arm trembled with the effort of holding position, the muscles still weak from disuse and trauma.
The therapy room door swung open with enough force to bounce off the wall, and every head turned. Davey stood in the doorway, his expression a complicated mix of resignation and what might have been amusement. Behind him loomed a mountain of a man with long blond hair tied back and shoulders that damn near filled the frame.
For a moment, Dom forgot the pain in his shoulder. The man’s resemblance to Sabin was uncanny—same strongjawline, same high cheekbones, same confident stance. But where Sabin’s hair was a sandy blond, this man’s was several shades darker, and his eyes were a deep gunmetal blue rather than the bright blue of Sabin’s. The family resemblance was unmistakable.
Jean-Luc Cavalier. Vivi and Sabin’s father.
