Page 60 of Little Bird (Advantage Play 3)

“Little busy, Bianca.”

“I can see that,” she notes. “Are you looking for someone?”

“Your brother,” I answer. “I thought you said he wasn’t here?”

Her pouty mouth forms a frown. “Apparently, he changed his mind. He’s out on the balcony. You should join him.”

I hold her beady gaze for a split second before heeding her advice and heading to the balcony off the side of the estate. It’s getting colder, but I don’t bother to grab a coat as I step into the brisk air. Sticking my hands into my front pockets, my shoulders bunch up around my ears.

Sure enough, there’s Dominic Castello. The bastard who gave Burlone Regina’s picture while simultaneously plastering a target on her back.

And he’s going to die for it. But first, I need to know what the hell he wants to talk about.

“Hello, Dex,” he greets me, balancing a cigarette between his fingers.

Stalking closer, I reply coolly, “Hello, Dominic.”

“Congrats on the whole”—he waves his hand through the air—“Romano family thing.”

I almost snort. “Thanks.”

“Good catch, by the way.”

My eyes narrow for a split second before I smooth out my features. “For?”

“For finding out your fearless leader was a rat. I heard you were the one who suspected it then brought the issue to Kingston in hopes of finding a…solution fit for a snitch.”

He means putting a bullet in Burlone’s skull without the entire Allegretti family hunting me down afterward.

After inhaling some more nicotine through his cigarette, he asks, “Tell me, do you know what they did with the girls?”

“Girls?”

“You know…the fruit Burlone had acquired for the tournament. Where are they?”

I cock my head while fully understanding that he’s prying for something. I’m just not sure what it is. “Why do you want to know?”

“I have a…. Well, let’s call him an associate, shall we? He’s looking for one in particular.”

I do the math in my head, crossing off names and faces in search of which girl he might be especially interested in. Other than Regina and Q, the rest of the girls were taken in by the Feds before likely being returned to their families in shitty condition. If his associate was looking for any of them, he wouldn’t have to look very hard to locate their whereabouts. But they were merely apples. A dime a dozen. It would be easier to simply pick a different apple than it would be to find the same one alone and unsuspecting.

And if he spoke to any man at the gathering, he’d know that Regina is here. Which means he’s talking about Q. The question is, what does he want with her?

“Which one?” I ask, pretending to be oblivious.

Shrugging, he replies, “Blonde. Pretty. A virgin.”

Q.

“She’s dead,” I offer blandly, about to turn on my heel and end this ludicrous conversation.

He stops me with a condescending tsk that grates on my nerves. “I don’t believe you. Where is she?”

“What does your associate want with her?” I counter.

“He didn’t say. But he did mention that you’d be generously compensated for any information you have in regards to her whereabouts.”

“I don’t need money.”

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