Page 61 of Gin & Trouble

“Kincaid, I’m putting you on speaker. Marco is here with me.”

“Of course.”

I hit the button and asked, “What the hell happened? Who was shot?”

His voice filled the room. “The man I sent to retrieve Miss Carpenter’s things was hit in the shoulder upon entering the premises. He returned fire and hit the shooter. Non-life-threatening injuries.”

Marco stood and paced. “Any idea what the shooter was doing inside the house? Did your guy interrupt a burglary?”

“There’s a female onsite. She claims she works for Marchionni Corp, an Iris Rogers. She’s been held against her will,” Kincaid said. “I haven’t shared this information with Miss Carpenter.”

My chest tightened. Frankie had mentioned she was worried about Iris several times, but I’d been too upset to stop and think the other woman could be in danger. “Has anyone called the authorities?”

Kincaid cleared his throat. “No sir. I have a team headed there now. The shooter isItalianand doesn’t appear to speak English.”

Son of a bitch.

“Text me the address. We’re on the way.” Marco turned for the door.

“Don’t mention any of this to my houseguest.” Disconnecting the call, I followed my brother. Interrogating Frankie would have to wait. “How much of a shit storm is this going to cause for you?”

He hitched a shoulder. “Depends.”

Holy non-answer, Batman.

We exited the Marchionni Corporation building and loaded into an SUV with two members of Marco’s security team. The remaining two members followed in a second vehicle.

I turned to my brother. “They have Frankie’s friend. Aren’t there rules about this kind of thing? About how women are treated?”

Staring out the window, he said, “Wives, daughters, sisters, grandmothers, yes. Bystanders, no.”

“But Tommaso took Sophia against her will and would have done the same to Frankie had she gone home.”

His expression reminded me of our mother, forced patience with a side order ofare-you-stupid. “Female family members are property to the Cosa Nostra. When her father died, Tommaso inherited the right to do as he pleases…as long as she’s not seriously injured or killed.”

Mob logic had never made much sense to me, but I’d chalked it up to a bunch of old men following old rules. However, I drew the line at treating women like baseball cards. Shaking my head, I turned my attention to the passing scenery.

In the months that I’d spent unknowingly talking to Frankie Abruzzo, she’d painted a vivid picture of her current living situation. She’d told me about the lack of air conditioning and how they didn’t dare sleep with their windows open. She’d told me how she hated to work late because the bus stop was a few blocks from her house and walking home at night freaked her out. She’d told me stories about her neighbors that had me begging to help her find another place to live.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for the reality.

Over fifteen years had passed since Hurricane Katrina and the subsequent floods had devastated New Orleans. While the parts of the city I frequented had rebuilt and moved on, the neighborhood Frankie called home seemed stuck in time. Telltale spray painted Xs remained on far too many houses—a grim reminder of the people who’d lost their lives in the storm. Several vacant lots dotted the street and others were littered with the remains of homes, garbage, and God-knew-what-else. It reminded me of a war zone.

The SUV came to a stop in front of a tiny shotgun house. The entire structure leaned as if still fighting the hurricane winds. My first reaction was denial. There was no way the woman I loved—yes, I still loved her—lived in that wretched place. But the man wearing a Marchionni Corp Security shirt out front popped my wishful thinking bubble.

Marco reached for the handle, but I stopped him.

“Wait. What’s the plan?” I’d never considered myself a coward, but then again, I’d never had to deal with this side of the mafia. I’d handled the techie stuff. Guns and blood and retribution were someone else’s problem.

He gave me a look that told me he regretted not sending me upstairs to wait with Frankie. “We question him, get the girl out of there, and call the cops.”

“Gotcha.” Rather than wuss out, or worse, trail him like a baby duck, I opened my door and strode to the house.

“Watch your step.” The guard on the porch nodded to a section of rotted wood.

Shame filled me. I’d lived and worked in opulence while people in my community suffered—while Frankie had suffered.

Thankfully, inside the house wasn’t as bad as the outside—other than the two bleeding men, piles of take out containers, and the stench of body odor, rotted food, and urine. The entire space would have fit into my parents’ living room, but the walls had a fresh coat of sunny yellow paint. Bright white curtains hung over gleaming windows, and neat stacks of dishes sat on open shelves in the kitchen. The place had probably felt homey before the unwanted visitors.

---