"That's exactly what I'm tellin' ya." I keep my voice flat, bored even. "Rico LaRiccia went to the Philippines, yeah? Posted about it on Instagram. There's digital evidence, social media, the whole thing. Whatever the LaRicciasthinkhappened, they're chasin' shadows."
Lorcan, mah boy,Father Patrick whispers in my head,how many Hail Marys for lyin' to yer uncle about a murder?
Not now, Father.
"The LaRiccias aren't gonna like this," Fearghus says after a long pause.
"The LaRiccias can go fuck themselves," I reply, injectin' just enough Irish temper into my voice to make it believable. "They told you to investigate, I investigated, I found nothin'. That's it.That's all there is. If they don't like the results, they can tell someone else to confirm what we already told them."
Another pause. Longer this time.
I can practically hear the gears turnin' in Fearghus's head, weighin' my words against whatever pressure the LaRiccias are applyin'. My uncle's brilliant at readin' people—it's why he's survived four decades in this business—but he's also pragmatic. If I'm givin' him a clean out, a way to tell the LaRiccias to fuck off without actually sayin' those words, he'll take it.
"You're absolutely certain about this?" Fearghus asks finally.
"On me mother's grave," I lie smoothly.
Oh, Lorcan my boy?—
"Shutup, Father Patrick!"
On the other end of the call, Fearghus laughs. "That priest still haunts ya, huh?"
I don't have the patience for this. "Are we done here? Can I go back to sleep, seeing as how I drove for eighteen fucking hours to do this pointless job?"
He doesn't answer right away. Makes me wait, the bastard. Thinks I'm squirmin'. But truth be told, Fearghus hasn't made me squirm since I was sixteen.
"All right," he growls. But I can hear the shift in his tone—from interrogation to acceptance. "I'll pass it along to the LaRiccias. But Lorcan?—"
"What."
"You better be right about this. Because if you're wrong, if Giovannididkill their son and we're the ones who helped cover it up? That's not just bad business. That's a fuckin' war. You understand what I'm sayin'?"
"I understand perfectly." My voice is steady, calm. "And I'm tellin' ya—Giovanni Bavga didn't kill Rico LaRiccia."
What I'm not tellin' him is that Giovanni Bavga absolutelydidkill Rico LaRiccia, probably with extreme prejudice based onwhat I've pieced together from Emmaleen's careful non-answers last night.
That Rico hurt her badly enough to put her in hospital for six days.
That Giovanni saved her by murdering the fucker who harmed his property.
Which is actually rather romantic in a deeply fucked-up way, now that I'm thinkin' about it.
Not that I'm condonin' murder. But if you're gonna murder someone, defendin' a woman from assault is at least a motivation that doesn't make you a complete monster.
Though Giovanni's still a monster. Just a monster with occasional flashes of somethin' resemblin' human emotion.
"Good," Fearghus says. "Ya can take the day today, but tomorrow I expect ya to be around. I've got three shipments coming in and I need you at the docks making sure everything runs smooth."
"Will do."
He hangs up without saying goodbye, which is typical Fearghus—the man treats phone conversations like military operations, efficient and devoid of unnecessary pleasantries.
I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear even though the call ended, brain spinnin' through the implications of what I've just done.
I've lied to my uncle. Lied to the LaRiccia family by extension. Lied to cover for Giovanni, who definitely committed the murder they're investigatin'.
And I've got the key witness handcuffed to my bed upstairs.
