Page 71 of Remy

A knock sounds at my front door, the heavy thuds cutting me off.

I raise my brows in expectation. “You and your underworld guests sure like to show up to my house at early hours.”

“I’m not expecting anyone.” He pushes from the doorframe, concern tightening his menacing features. “Are you sure it isn’t for you?”

“I suppose it could be Lesley.” I rake an anxious hand through the tangled strands of my towel-dried hair. “She knows what time I get ready for work.”

His shoulders stiffen, and he turns to stalk down the hall.

“Wait.” I rush after him, catching up at the entry to the open living area. “What are you going to say to her? You need to be careful. She won’t hesitate in calling the cops again.”

“Let me handle it.”

“But—”

“I thought you’d learned to follow instructions.” He stops and swings around to face me.

I bristle.

The loud knock sounds again.

“Do you seriously think that’s the noise a decrepit old lady makes when she raps arthritic knuckles on a door?” He speaks low, his face hard. “Stay where you are, and keep your mouth shut. You hear me?”

My pulse quickens, the thought of a threat rooting me in place as I nod.

He continues his adamant stride across the room. One hand reaches beneath the back of his suit jacket, giving a glimpse of dark metal that makes my stomach drop as he yanks open the door.

There’s a moment of silence.

A temperamental pause as Remy’s back snaps rigid.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snarls.

My skin prickles at the sinister chuckle that carries from my front porch.

“Is that any way to greet your brother?” comes the smooth reply.

Brother?

Oh goddamn fucking shit.

A chill sweeps through me, the icy freeze settling in the pit of my stomach.

“What a coincidence your weekend bender brought you to a familiar home,” the brother drawls.

I’m not sure which one it is—the guy from the phone call in the car or the so-called butcher.

I don’t know which I’d prefer. But the door opens wider as if pushed from the outside and a man steps in, barging past Remy. Tall. Broad. Dark suit. Darker soul.

I recognize him. He’s the guy from the dive bar. The one who met with my father the night this nightmare began.

Salvatore.

I inch backward, creeping toward the hall. His gaze snaps in my direction, his savage focus skewering me in place.

“There she is.” He grins, the expression far from friendly. “Ms. Pelosi. Finally, we meet.”

All the moisture leaves my mouth, the recollection of Saturday morning’s conversation about Remy’s brother hitting me right in the chest.

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