Page 177 of Fallen Rook

“Bro?” I said.

“Get the plane ready.”

“On it.”

Luca turned around and sauntered toward the stairs. He halted at the threshold and pivoted toward the fourth soldier, snapping his fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot. Tell your boss I said this.”

He shot him square between the eyes.

I sighed. Both my brothers had a proclivity for anarchy, but only Luca was casual about it like he was filing his taxes.

Achilles and I caught up with him, the three of us sauntering in a perfect line out of the place.

“I’d like to contribute to the chaos, but not enough to break my word to my wife. I’m not boarding a plane to Russia,” Achilles declared. “I promised Tierney I’d never set foot in the place again after the time I brought her a few presents from there, and I’d die before breaking a promise to her.”

Presents was code for the assholes who’d attacked her when she was a child.

“Same,” I said, again proud of myself for setting boundaries the way Dr. Andrews and I had discussed. “I want to be home in time to make Tom a reduced-fat turkey bacon sandwich with egg whites on sprouted bread.”

“I’m doing this on my own.” Luca’s tone held a note of determination. “And if I have to finish Jeremie and Alex myself, I’ll do that, too.”

Achilles and I exchanged glances. It was unlike Luca to be deep in his feels. Or…to have them in the first place.

“You understand this is a declaration of war?” I asked my older brother. “The way we barged in here, into their territory, racked up a body count, and left without a word. Things are about to get very ugly.”

“I’m aware,” Luca said coolly. “We’ll win. And when we do—the entire country will be our playground.”

Achilles whistled, filling the three of us glasses of grappa to clink together. “Finally, some mayhem.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Enzo

“So why are you so hot on making Tom breakfast?” Achilles asked on the plane, on our way back to New York. “Is it because he can’t afford it himself?”

Tiernan snorted, eyes still glued to his phone as he was typing.

“Can’t you see I’m journaling, motherfucker?” I looked up from the notebook in my lap, holding my pen up as evidence. I’d been journaling every day straight for a month. It had been helping me a lot. Only a few weeks in, and already my psoriasis was almost completely gone, with no flare-ups in sight. “And to answer your question, no, it’s not because he can’t afford food. Just because he is not making 400k a month doesn’t mean he is poor. Your sense of wealth is completely askew.”

“He’s not making anything a month these days.” Tiernan grinned devilishly, swinging his menacing gaze to me. “And that’s a shit number, not a skewed sense of wealth.”

“What are you talking about?” I scowled.

“He got fired,” Luca said tiredly, probably to make us stop talking.

“What?” I growled.

“How did you not know your man is unemployed, Bridget Jones?” Achilles chuckled, flicking the notepad in my lap.

“Where the hell did you hear that?”

“Grapevine,” Luca said. “Word on the street is Rothwell’s on indefinite leave from the FBI. Retained a top-notch lawyer, too. Doesn’t look too good for him.” My stomach twisted into tight knots, and I breathed through my nose to stop myself from vomiting.

How had he not told me this?

How had he kept quiet about his career being in shambles?

Because he didn’t want you to feel guilty or rush to his aid. He put you first, like he always does.