Page 50 of Brutal Vows
She makes a sour face. “Same to you.”
That makes me chuckle. “It means cheers.”
“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so?” She picks up her glass. “To what?”
Looking at her, the woman who spawned Reyna, Queen Devil Bitch of All Existence, I say sourly, “Birth control.”
“Heh! I’ll drink to that.”
We clink glasses and drink. When I set my glass down, she’s smiling at me.
Somehow, it’s not comforting.
She says, “So. Homer-who’s-named-after-a-dead-artist. You kill people for a living,sí?”
I debate about how to answer but decide to go with the truth. She seems like someone who doesn’t tolerate bullshit.
“I wouldn’t say it’s my primary role, but it’s definitely in the mix.”
She nods, grunting. “My husband killed people, too. So did Reyna’s. It’s a way of life for all made men.”
She peers at me over her wineglass as if she’s waiting for me to respond.
“If you’re asking if I enjoy it, the answer is no.” I stop and think for a moment. “Actually, strike that. I can recall several times I did enjoy it. But those particular men were savages.”
“All men are savages,” is her instant response. “It’s simply a matter of degree.”
I say drily, “I’m starting to see where your daughter gets her love for the opposite sex.”
“If you were married to the devil for fourteen years, you’d see a lot better.”
The way she says it, in a low voice laden with pain and regret, makes my skin crawl. “He was that bad?”
She meets my gaze and holds it for several silent moments, then sighs and takes a deep swallow of her wine.
“I wouldn’t have survived him. To be honest, I’ve never known anyone who could. But Reyna did. Would you like to know how?”
She doesn’t wait for my answer before saying firmly, “Grit.”
When I only gaze at her in silence, she adds, “She might not be sweet. All that was carved out of her. But once a heart has been hollowed out by knives, it can withstand anything.”
“What about Lili? Does she have grit?”
She looks me over for a long moment. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
I’m about to protest that I’m not anything like Reyna’s dead psycho husband when the crack of gunfire rings out from somewhere behind the house.
“Oh, listen,” says Mrs. Caruso calmly, glancing toward the kitchen window. “They’re playing your song.”
I leap to my feet, kicking the chair out from under me and crouching low. Pulling my gun from the holster inside my suit jacket, I snap, “Get under the table!”
“No can do. I’ve got wine to finish.”
As another volley of shots rings out, she sips her wine and smiles at me.
Bloody hell. The whole fucking family is bonkers.
I make my way swiftly to the wall next to the windows. Leaning in, I take a quick scan of the backyard. The yard is surrounded by massive maple and oak trees and a tall hedge of arborvitae that blocks the view of the property from outside.
