Page 42 of Bishop

She slams a door. Something smashes.

All three of us ignore the commotion.

“How did she get the bruises?” Salvatore’s tone is spiteful, laced with authority.

Does he think he’s already the head of the East Coast mafia? Is he expecting me to show allegiance?

“Ask her yourself. I only found out about the injury a few minutes before you did.”

Remy bares his teeth. “Was that while you two were getting naked?”

I open my mouth to correct him, then think better of it and smirk instead. Fuck him. Two days ago, these assholes sucker-punched me and tied me to a goddamn chair. I don’t owe them shit—least of all the truth.

His nostrils flare. “You’re a real piece of work, Bishop.”

I incline my head. “And even so, you still wish you were me.”

“A butcher?” Salvatore returns my smug taunt. “No, thanks.”

“You’ll need to be far worse than that if you plan on taking Lorenzo’s position.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to dictate the dirty work to a worthless offsider, just like my uncle did with you.”

I grin, my smile widening the longer the insult digs under my skin. “If it wasn’t a legacy I helped build, I’d be excited to see you burn it to the ground. But we can save the talk of your demise for later. I want to know what the fuck happened yesterday.”

Remy huffs a deep breath. The defiant stiffness in both their shoulders loosens.

“Our parents were already at Lorenzo’s when we arrived.” Salvatore drags a hand through his dark hair. “They must have known we were coming.”

“How?” I don’t hide the accusatory contempt from my tone.

“I don’t fucking know. But he came with a plan. And as soon as he caught wind that Remy and I were out to take him down, his men stormed the property. Guns blazing.” He looks past me, falling into memories that steal the color from his skin. “It was a goddamn bloodbath.”

“Did you hide and let Langston and Lorenzo do the dirty work? Is that why they were both injured and you two came back unscathed?”

Salvatore’s lip curls.

“We did the best we could with limited resources,” Remy sneers. “It didn’t help that Matthew walked in there without a gun.”

That stupid motherfucker. I knew his stance on carrying would come back to bite him.

“Was he shot?” I ask, hoping for a less significant injury.

“They both were. Along with Lorenzo’s housekeeper and numerous—”

“Extremities or vital organs?” Dread solidifies in my gut. I don’t give a shit about anyone else. Lorenzo and Langston are all that matter.

“Lorenzo took a hit to the leg. Our brother wasn’t as lucky.”

I stiffen, every inch of me coiled tight. “Meaning?”

“He was hit in the abdomen.”

Fuck. I step back, shoving a hand through my hair.

“He’s okay,” Salvatore adds. “He’s a lucky son of a bitch. Mainly soft tissue and muscle damage. Blood loss, too. And the risk of infection is high. Yet somehow the bullet only grazed organs. There was no penetration.”

“Kinda like your sex life?” I mutter, but the humor doesn’t stick.

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