Page 40 of Kyle

Car tires on gravel draw my attention, and I tap my father’s arm and lift my chin to the Mercedes pulling in.

“Silver’s widow. Goddamn it,” my father hisses and flings his cigarette. “Go deal with her.”

I grind my butt under my boot and stroll over to the car, shoving my hands in my pockets. Before I reach the driver door, she’s throwing the car in park and climbing out. Then she’s stalking toward me, and I’m walking backward in front of her, my hands out.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Silver?”

“Yes, get out of my way,” she snaps, trying to side-step around me, but I dart to the side, blocking her.

“What do you need?” I stall, hoping my father will come to my aid.

“I want to talk to Cole. Now.”

I glance at Pops, and he nods.

“Okay, let me take you to him. Follow me.” I hold the door for her, and she sails past me, her expensive perfume billowing in her wake. She’s got on a caramel-colored coat with a matching fur color, a tight black skirt, tall boots, and enough gold jewelry to fill a bucket.

I lead her across the clubhouse toward the hall, aware of the eyes of every brother in the club, all twisted on their bar stools. Even the pool players pause the game to watch.

We go down the hall to his office, and I tap on the door.

“Yeah?” Cole’s voice calls.

I open the door. “You got a visitor, Prez.”

Before I can say more, she pushes past me, and Cole springs to his feet.

“Joselyn.”

“Have you found anything?” she asks, her voice all soft and sweet for our prez.

Crash and Red Dog sit in the two chairs in front of the desk. Crash offers her his seat.

“Sit down, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart,” she snaps, then calms her tone. “I’m sorry. Thank you. That was kind. I’m just an emotional wreck.” Her eyes return to Cole. “Did you catch them?”

“Not exactly.”

No one tells me to get out, so I stick around.

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“We think Harry found out something that got him killed,” Crash says.

Her gaze moves to him and back to our prez. “What kind of thing?”

Cole looks to Crash, and his expression reads,how much do we tell her?

Crash shifts. “He, ah, may have stuck his nose into some shit, sorry, stuff he should have left alone.”

“What kind of thing?” she repeats.

Cole strokes his chin with the back of his hand and finally exhales. “The mob, Joselyn. He found out some things they were doing—illegal things—and we think that’s what the trip to Vegas was about. We think he confronted the wrong people, and it got him killed.”

“Who? I want a name,” she says.

“The Santorini Crime Family,” I say.

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