Page 126 of Luck of the Draw

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FRENCH QUARTER, NEW ORLEANS

Two days later, deep into the hot, muggy afternoon, Brennan crept down the hall to the bedroom to check on Skye for the umpteenth time during her epic nap.

The previous afternoon, they’d arrived home after their respective meetings at the NOPD, both silent and shaken for different reasons. Skye had perched rigidly on the edge of the couch for all of ten seconds before Brennan asked her if she was okay.

She turned her crystalline blue eyes toward him. They were clearer than he’d ever seen. “He’s gonna go to jail.”

He’d leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, and nodded. “Yes, he is.”

And then she’d turned her face forward and stood up. “I really feel like sleeping.”

Before he could say anything else, she’d stalked down the hall to the bedroom, paused only long enough to strip off every last piece of clothing she had on, climbed into bed, and proceeded to sleep for more than twenty-four hours straight.

It was clear Skye felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. The epic nap she’d been wrapped in for more than a whole day may have been the first truly restful sleep she’d had in years—possibly ever. That kind of exhausting relief was expected and understandable.

On the other hand, after Brennan’s meeting, his feelings were the polar opposite of relief. In fact, he was more stressed out than he’d ever been in his life.

He had grossly underestimated the sheer volume of absolute shit he’d gotten himself into.

After Brennan and Orson sat down with a detective to explain the situation, they were informed this was a job for the friggin’ FBI. Which shouldn’t have surprised Brennan—that is if he’d stopped to pull his head out of his ass long enough to actually think about it. But he hadn’t, and then he was completely caught off guard, and naturally assumed he was on the hook for involvement in a federal crime.

He wasn’t. But Vito was, and Brennan would apparently make splendid bait to finally take him down for racketeering, fraud, money laundering, drug trafficking, and murder.

The look on Orson’s face had been priceless.

The plan was for Brennan to arrange a meeting with Vito the following week under the pretense of paying him, and then coax him into admitting to at least one of the outstanding crimes. The agents were going to put a wire on him, and Brennan was gonna fuckin’die.

At least, he was pretty sure he was going to die. It was possible everything would go according to the plan, but the threat of death by a bullet to the head loomed dark.

On some level, Brennan knew this had been coming all along.

He’d murdered fifty-six people over the course of two deployments, and Karma probably didn’t give a fuck that he was simply ordered to do so by the USMC.

Live by the sword, die by the sword.

And the following week was barreling toward him like a friggin’ freight train with shot brakes.

In the face of what he had every reason to believe was an inevitable outcome, Brennan had spent the past twenty-four hoursnotsleeping and attempting to prepare things. Namely, things for Skye, and he had two ideas. One required legal assistance from Carson, and one required Liza to, well, be Liza.

Slipping into the bedroom, Brennan crouched next to the bed to peer at Skye’s sweet sleeping face, which was half-hidden by the comforter. She’d wrapped herself up tight like an adorable little human burrito.

“Skye,” he said quietly.

She didn’t even stir. He placed the back of his hand on her forehead just in case he’d misread her exhaustion and she was actually sick with something. She seemed to be a normal temperature and still didn’t stir, so he kissed her head and stood up.

Slipping out of the bedroom, he pulled out his phone and shot a text to Liza.

Brennan Riley: Got a minute?

About two minutes later, his phone buzzed with a reply.

Liza Hardin-Deneau: I’m actually in your neighborhood! Over w/Ophelia. What’s up?

Oh, this was good. Ophelia should be in on this, too. She was overwhelmingly maternal and tended to be a bit of a mother hen to their circle of friends—and that’s the kind of thing he wanted to make sure Skye had access to if things went south.

Brennan Riley: Mind if I swing by?

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