Page 109 of Immoral

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Papà snaps.

Killian holds his hands in the air. "Yeah. Chill out, Angelo." He opens the door and slides out of the car.

"Papà—"

"Go! I don't want to hear it. Pay off your debt and get back to the house. We have issues to deal with and quickly," he declares.

I open my mouth but decide to shut it. I follow in Killian's footsteps and get out. Once the door shuts, Tully chirps, "Boys. Get in."

"Fuck's sake," Killian mutters but opens the door and slides over the seat.

I once again follow, wondering what Tully has up his sleeve. I cringe when I realize Aidan is in the car, too. There's no doubt he'll enjoy every moment of Tully's payback chore.

Tully rolls up the window, the driver pulls out, and he gives us his grin. It's an expression I hate to be on the receiving end of, especially right now. He seems extra excited, which only makes the pit in my stomach grow. Knowing him, it's going to be something Killian and I detest.

Tully looks at Killian, taunting, "You didn't think you'd be back in this seat after a stint in the slammer, did you?"

"Get it over with, Tully. Whatever it is, spit it out," Killian hurls at him.

"Watch how you talk to my father," Aidan warns.

Killian snorts. "Or what? Don't make threats you can't make good on, Aidan."

Aidan scoffs. "What is it about you O'Malleys?"

"Excuse me?" Killian demands.

"All right. Enough," Tully orders.

Killian and Aidan stare each other down. Tully rubs his hands together and focuses on me.

"Tully, I don't have time to spare. I need to get back to my wife. Whatever this is, can we get on with it?" I question.

He chuckles then his grin grows.

My pulse races faster. I've known Tully my entire life. He's way too happy right now. Whatever it is he has up his sleeve isn't something I'm going to want to do.

He chuckles louder, sits back in his seat, and states, "Relax, boys. We're going for a little ride. When we get there, I'll make it clear what you're going to do for me."

24

Cara

"You needto wait your turn, Ma'am," the officer scowls.

The anger and worry I'm feeling are growing with each second. No one will tell me where Gianni is or when he'll get out. I assume there's a law against withholding information about a spouse's whereabouts when you have them in custody. Yet these officers act as if it's not real. Or if it is, it doesn't matter to anyone in this precinct. I tap my finger on the counter. "I've been waiting for hours. I want to know where my husband is and why no one will give me any information!"

She points to the back of the line. Her eyes turn to slits. She seethes, "Don't make me tell you again."

"Tell me where my husband is!" I repeat.

"Ah, Mrs. Gianni Marino," a man's voice chirps behind me.

I spin then assess him. Unlike the uniformed officers, he's wearing a cheap dark-brown suit. A potbelly protrudes past his belt about six inches. His slicked-back hair is so oily, it makes me cringe. "Who are you?"

His lips form a tight smile. He keeps his gaze pinned on mine, as if to intimidate me.

This game, whatever it is they're playing, is getting old. I don't disrespect the law, but I know my husband and his family aren't saints. The lack of information they're giving me makes me wonder if they have something on Gianni. My pulse beats faster. I stand straighter. In a firm voice, I question, "Do I need to call my attorney and have them file a lawsuit?"

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