Page 132 of Heartfelt Pain
Based on the way they hang their heads, it’s a yes.
With a huff, I turn on my heel.
Trevino is already crouched near the man he shot. The one who came on Cade’s behalf, whoever that is. It’s a young guy, blue eyes still wide open. They’ll forever be empty now.
“You made a good shot,” I murmur.
I suspect Trevino analyzes the world differently and I wonder what hecurrently sees.
“Anything?” I ask quietly.
Trevino shakes his head. “Came in on the heels of the Irish, but he’s not with them.”
“Will you check with everyone else?” I ask. There are quite a few important people here tonight, but there are plenty of hidden corners in this city. Trevino knows them all, his work as the Ghost occurring on the periphery.
He nods, agreeing to the courtesy.
“Thank you.” This is my best friend we’re talking about. I’m going to figure out what’s going on.
Isolde warily walks over when I beckon.
“They got a cleaning crew, don’t they.” She runs a hand over her nose. Foot soldiers are already starting the task of picking up the place.
“Let me look at that.” I tug her forward. The bullet tore through her hoodie on the left side of her torso.
Isolde tries to twist away. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Let me see it.”
The skin is aggravated and there’s blood. It might not be a gaping wound but it’s got to hurt like hell. Her hand shakes as she forces mine away, her mouth pulled tight.
“You want to tell me who Cade is?” I cross my arms. I’m lecturing all my friends tonight.
Her lack of response is infuriating.
“All right. I hope you like smoothies at the ass crack of dawn.”
Isolde rolls her eyes but Trevino’s head swivels toward me. “What?”
“Congratulations. I’m hiring you to look after Isolde.”
“Maybe I have other clients?”
“Do you really want to piss me off?” I ask, glancing around the remains of the room. One bad review from me and his new business is screwed.
I leave Trevino, muttering under his breath about ever meeting us. Roma is by his mother.
I’ve never seen her in pants. They’re black and the boots she wears are more solid than the skinny points of her usual heels.
“When did you figure it out?” I ask.
Yelena knows a lot of shit. She’s clever and strategic.
“Joan Stuart relies heavily on the same tactics,” she says. She’s as stiff and cold as ever. Not a bit of the blood on the concrete floor disturbs her. “She particularly loves stabbing ex-lovers. Leaving a trail of your former boyfriends seemed like her style.”
“Hmmm.” I scuff my toe against the floor. “And the Hallows? You guessed it had something to do with them too, didn’t you?”
Yelena simply raises an eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying. Somehow, I find the pointed look motherly. With no words she shots me a message of admonishment for not figuring it out sooner alongside a glimmer of something else—pride that I did eventually catch on.
