Page 38 of His Passerotta

Oh, sis, don’t worry about the fucking army of assassins who may want you dead. It’ll be ight.

Has he lost his mind?

His eyes drift to the table, and I turn to follow his gaze. With more urgency than he’s had since speaking to me, he slides around me and pushes the papers together then flips the top one over.

“What are you hiding from me?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says instead of answering the question. “I’ll have one of my buddies make some space for you at his place for a little while, until things blow over. I think it’s a good idea not to go back to your apartment, but mine isn’t safe either. It’s too close. Plus, I’m your brother. This would be an obvious hideout.”

I shake my head. “I was waiting for you so we could go together.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I have a lot of shit to do.”

Criminal shit. Gang shit.

If this isn’t a sure sign of failure as a sister, I don’t know what is.

“What did you overhear?” he asks again. He sounds more than curious. More like interrogative.

I blink at him, beyond confused at what the hell is going on in his head. Is he delusional enough to believe his little group of degenerates are any match for centuries-old organized crime? These families have been around longer than any of his ‘members’ have been alive.

“I don’t know. I pretty much forgot everything once they shoved a gun into my back.”

“Anthony Gruco was leading the meeting, I’m assuming, because it was at his restaurant… Who else was there?”

“A guy named Maksim and one named Finn. And then the one with the gun to my back, Hugh.”

“Finn? The Irish enforcer?”

“I didn’t ask.”

His eyes widen like that information is somehow worrisome. “Did he have like a clover tattoo or anything that made you think he was Irish?”

“What does it matter?” I ask, exasperated. “What are you getting out of this?”

“Just answer the question.”

“No,” I growl, stepping up to him with my chest puffed. “Tell me what the fuck you’re up to first, then I’ll tell you.”

Black, dyed hair hangs in his eyes as he stares me down, neither of us relenting. I don’t know what I’m expecting, exactly. I’ve never wanted to know anything about his ‘work life’ before, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I have zero clue what he does all day. But now I feel like I need to know.

“Please just tell me you’re not messing around with any of the mobs,” I plead, letting my chest deflate. “They will kill you, Corey. And me. Hell, they’ll bring Mom back from the dead just to kill her too.”

He huffs. “You’re giving them too much credit… They’re criminals, Bailey. Just like you and me.”

“I’m not a criminal,” I protest, although it’s irrelevant. “And no, they’re not like you and me. Neither of us make a habit out of shoving people into barrels of acid.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he says, his tone making me back up a step.

Where is my little brother?

Who is this?

My eyes move to the table and find the metal devices Josh pulled out of the box. They’re junky looking, like an amateur put them together, but one close look at the wires intertwined on the sides, and I know they’re bombs.

Corey adjusts to block my view. “Just … lie low for a little while, okay? I’ll text you the address to my buddy’s place.”

I shake my head. “Don’t bother. If you’d called, you’d know my phone is gone. One of the ‘harmless’ mob guys crushed it.” I turn and start toward the door.

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