Page 87 of Psycho

Bones arches an eyebrow at me, as if I should know the answer to my question.

“Mindar.”

“Oh, fuck,” Kage says beside me, but I don’t say a word, because my goddamn mind is reeling.

“Is he turning?” I finally ask.

Bones shrugs his shoulders, before taking a gulp of his drink.

“I don’t fucking know, but it can’t be good, either way.”

“It’s awfully early for whiskey, boys,” Athena sing-songs as she walks into the kitchen, and goes straight for my brother.

“Butterfly.” Bones gazes down at her, with so much love, it nearly makes me physically ill. He places his hand on her swollen belly, and kisses her.

“Go meet Hadley. We’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Danielle, the only girlfriend I ever had. She was using me for her father, high up in the FBI, and her only goal was to get information on my family.

“I want him out, Bones.”

He nods in understanding.

“I know, brother, and if it were Athena, I’d want the same thing, but there are logistics involved.”

I arch an eyebrow, and glare at him, intending to make myself abundantly clear.

“If it’s not possible, I’ll walk into that prison, and kill anybody that stands between me and Carlo. It’s not an if, it’s when. He will not continue breathing after what he has done to her.”

And then it happens. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. The knife stabs into my goddamn ass, as I grab Kage by the throat and groan.

“Asshole.”

He grins at me, like the cat that ate the canary.

Fucker stabbed me in the ass.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

HADLEY

Mama Bonetti takes my hand and tilts her head in question.

“Let’s go sit outside for a few minutes, so we can talk alone.”

While it has been a while, I know that look well, and it wasn’t a question but more of a statement, an order, no room for negotiation.

I rise from the sofa, all three of the brothers’ wives eyeing me warily, as I follow her to the French doors that lead to the patio, and an expansive yard, with an in-ground pool. I wonder if all their houses look like a luxury hotel, as I glance around. More expertly manicured gardens, although this one less impressive than Massimo’s was, before the fire. We take a seat at a black wrought-iron table, with a large blue umbrella overhead. Within minutes, a man brings us both orange juice.

She winks at me with a grin. “Mimosas, because this is a celebration.”

I nod my thanks and take a sip of the drink, and it’s delicious. It’s not only orange juice and champagne. There’s something sweeter in it, that I can’t place.

Mrs. Bonetti smiles. “Mango.”

Reaching across the table, she takes my hand in hers, with a sad expression, as she gazes over at me.

“Lorenzo did not kill your father, sweetheart. He wouldn’t have.”

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