I know it wasn’t Connor. It can’t be.
The truth hardly matters, though, because the blame will fall on him regardless. I don’t see any way out for him.
This betrayal will be my undoing.
I reach out and touch my father’s cold but soft hand, his skin like paper.
As I rub my aching head, my bracelet glints in the moonlight.
Lora shuffles to my side. “I’ll clean him up,” she says, her voice thick with tears. “He deserves his dignity.” She smooths her bathrobe and robotically heads out. Probably to grab a bucket of water and some washcloths.
I’d all but forgotten she was still in the room, weeping over a crime scene
that no police or forensic techs will ever investigate. That’s not how we handle wrongdoing in this family, not even in the event of a murdered boss. We handle things ourselves.
As reality settles in, anger takes root.
I’m going to kill you, Connor!
Why’d I let him into my life?
How could I have been so clueless?
I have to find Nino and get as many details as possible.
Before leaving the bedroom, I lean in to kiss my father’s forehead, though I can’t bear to look at his throat. With the office door open, I can hear Nino pacing inside.
I pause to give him a moment because he’s suffering too. Men in our circles rarely have the luxury of grieving their loved ones.
His voice penetrates the cracked door. “That’s what I’m telling you. He met with his executor at the gala, before the Gallaghers showed. They drew up a new will.”
The will? Who’s my brother on the phone with? Why does our father’s will matter?
I frown, unable to swirl my thoughts into some semblance of sanity.
One of my last memories of my father from the other night surfaces.
Is…could…did someone murder him because of the will?
I rush to my room and throw myself down on my bed, burrowing under the covers.
Connor’s scent—orange and smoke—permeates the sheets. Sobbing, I clutch a pillow to my chest.
I can’t take this.
After an hour, maybe two, the chaos outside my bedroom door quiets down. The house lies still, mourning my father’s death.
With my SIG 9mm in hand, I slip down the halls to where I know they must be keeping Connor.
I’ll deal with this bastard myself. Avenge my father.
A few guards stand near the prison wing, conversing quietly as they share a cigarette. I sneak past them easily and turn the corner, closing the door that separates the cells from the house.
The space is soundproofed for interrogation, which fits tonight’s needs perfectly.
Connor’s cell is down at the end, the farthest one from the main house.
From between the bars, I can glimpse him in the shadows, his head in his hands, his back hunched against the cinderblock wall. His body language exudes guilt.
