Page 81 of Wicked Roses

“You haven’t told me your surprise. I assume that’s why you’re in the city today? You’ve always said it gives you a headache now that you’re retired.”

Dad smooths a hand over his v-neck sweater. “I may have changed my mind. I couldn’t stay away forever.”

“There isn’t much golfing in the city... so it can’t be that.”

“I’ve had enough golfing for now.”

“Well? Then what is it?” I stare in excitement waiting for the big news.

He merely chuckles. “I’m going to leave it a surprise for now. You’ll find out soon enough. Let’s just say... I’ve found a new passion.”

I’m not sure what to think for the rest of our lunch. Dad doesn’t bring up the overturned Belini verdict nor does he poke around my personal and professional life again. I’m grateful we’ve reached a stalemate, though I’m not naive enough to believe this is the end of it.

Knowing Dad and his suspicious nature, it’s only the beginning.

* * *

“He knows somethings up. My dad,” I say later in the evening. We’re standing in our firing lane of the shooting range. Salvatore watches over my shoulder as I demonstrate I can properly load my handgun. “He basically told me he knows the apartment renovation isn’t real.”

“I told you we’d need to schedule the company to come by. We’ve waited too long.”

“That’s not all. He finds it suspicious I’ve taken time off.”

Salvatore steps forward, covering my hand with his. He guides me on reinserting the magazine when I have trouble the first time. In instructor mode, his touch is slow and gentle, yet with a firmness that makes me relent to him.

“He’s right. Itissuspicious,” he says once the magazine is inserted. “You taking time off—you’re not known for it. Taking weeks off out of the blue isn’t your norm.”

“Brenda showed up and covered for me. I owe her a month’s worth of coffees.”

“We have to be careful. Your father has eyes and ears all over the city.”

“You make my dad sound like he’s a mafia boss,” I say. “He’s been retired for seven years now.”

“Still has connections everywhere. Aren’t you the one who told me about how hegolfswith the police commissioner?”

“He and Flynn are friends.”

“Proving my point, Phi,” Salvatore says, folding his arms over his lean-muscled chest. “Your father has the ability to find stuff out if he really wants to.”

Tension rings through my body as Salvatore steps away and I focus on my gun. My father has always been a point of contention between us. Less so these days due to Dad being in retirement, Salvatore and I being older and more mature, and avoiding the topic altogether most times.

I don’t know who hates the other more. Dad’s face contorts with pure loathing at the mention of the Mancinos, but Salvatore is no slouch when it comes to their feud; the bitterness is as present in his tone now as it was twelve years ago.

I put on my noise-canceling earmuffs and pick up my handgun as the range manager announces the next round starts in sixty seconds. The first target pops up a moment later. My breathing is calm as I take careful aim and squeeze the trigger.

The gun recoils and kicks back in my wrist, but my grip remains steady. The second target that emerges is a cut-out of a sketchy-looking man some fifteen feet away. My reflexes are quicker on the uptake, firing the instant he shows up. The bullet lands center mass as I’ve been instructed on this round.

The following batch of targets are in motion. I manage to keep up as they spring onto the scene out of nowhere. One immediately after the other, they glide across my line of sight. I hit eight of the ten by the time the buzzard goes off and I’m directed to put down my weapon.

My heart races as I set it on the table and pull off my earmuffs. Shooting always makes adrenaline course through me. I’ve noticed the same feeling washes over me whenever Salvatore shows me fighting maneuvers.

I’ll never admit it to him, but a growing part of me understands the appeal. Igetwhy he’s always taken pleasure in these things.

It’s the rush. Your pulse spiking in your veins.

“You did better than most of the guys in my crew,” Salvatore says. He watches as I disassemble the Glock like I was taught.

I release the magazine and open the slide, handling the pieces as if I’m an expert and not a novice. His blue-green gaze tracks my hands with a clench in his jaw. I’m about to question him when he tells me what I should’ve already guessed.

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