“I did.”
“Take Chastain there. Then meet us at SNB at eight a.m., just as everyone’s getting to work. Can you leave your men here in case someone shows up?”
“Will do.”
***
Lucky crept off the elevator with Bo, cup of decaf Starbucks in his hand. As little sleep as he’d gotten last night, he’d love to return to full caffeine, or full caffeine with a hit of espresso, and lots and lots of white sugar.
Of course, he’d have gotten a bit more sleep if Bo hadn’t been dressed like a badassed biker—briefly—and the nephews were home.
Bo’s cup smelled like hay. How could something so bad smelling taste so good on Bo’s lips?
“Hi, Lisa.” Bo gave the receptionist a forced but toothy grin. Dark circles made shadows under his eyes.
She beamed. “Would you believe it? Mr. Smith is back. Seeing him made up for getting called in early.”
Lucky gave Lisa a wave in passing. Too early yet for coherent speech. God, but he hated mornings. What day was it, anyhow?
He paused by the conference room door. No telling who might be sitting in there.
“It’ll be okay.” Bo rested a hand on Lucky’s shoulder. “Walter’s back, and we’ve got enough evidence for a solid case against Forsyth.”
Yes, Walter was back. But for how long? And at what cost? “Yeah, nobody ever showed up after we left Chastain last night. They might be on to us.”
They filed into the conference room, Lucky heading straight for the rear where no one else sat. Only when he’d claimed his seat did he take stock of everyone else in the room.
Upon spotting Lucky, Johnson meandered down the table, settling into a chair to Lucky’s right.
She dropped her head into her hands. “I feel like roadkill. You wouldn’t believe how many shots I had to do last night with Phillip to get him to talk.”
Bo sat to Lucky’s left. A cushion of insulation from the rest of the proceedings.
God, was he ever tired.
Keith entered the room and stopped, staring at Lucky for a long moment. He might be a jerk most of the time, but he’d been solidly in Walter’s corner. Lucky nodded to the seat next to Bo.
At least that meant Landry couldn’t sit near Bo, if and when the asswipe showed up. If he’d gotten word about Chastain slipping the leash, he might’ve had the good sense to run.
However, anyone dumb enough to get involved in such a half-assed scheme wasn’t long on brains.
Several more people filed into the room. Lucky vaguely recognized a few from the SNB legal team that had nearly fried his ass a few years ago when they’d accused Bo of wrongdoing.
Next, sending a wave of relief washing over Lucky, came Walter, followed by O’Donoghue, Chastain and…
Oh, fucking hell.
Victor Mangiardi.
Lucky’s heart seized in his chest, and for a moment breath wouldn’t come.
Victor. Here. Now. His dark, dark eyes swept back and forth, gaze landing on Lucky before he glanced away. Gray sprinkled his nearly-black hair, with a touch more icing at the temples. His expensively cut suit didn’t hide his fit body. More than likely he still worked out daily, as he had when Lucky lived with him.
Gorgeous. Age had merely sharpened his features, adding character.
Why couldn’t the man have turned into a troll?
Victor smiled and chatted like he and Walter were old friends, bringing to mind a photo Lucky had once found of the two.
