Page 61 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

“Didn’t the nurse tell you?” she asked, sounding a little hurt. “I was here a couple of times. I meant to come yesterday, but I just… I didn’t get here,” she said.

Because she’d been celebrating my birthday.

“You’re okay, though?” he asked, gaze moving over her.

I had no idea what he’d looked like that first day, but one side of his face was still swollen. His nose was crooked enough that it must have been broken. And one of his eyes wasn’t opened as much as the other, bruises smattering all around it.

In fact, the bruises all over him were still pretty intense. And there was a cast on his arm.

But he had good color.

And, clearly, his brain was working pretty damn good.

“Yes,” she assured him, but there was that false note in her voice again.

I caught it.

So did her old man.

His eyes narrowed at her.

“What happened?” he asked, voice brooking no fucking argument. I knew that voice. It was the one our fathers and uncles had used on us as kids when we were fucking around or trying to bullshit them.

“Dad, we can talk about that when you’re—“

“Traveler,” he barked. Then, softening a bit, “What happened?”

I was close enough to see her throat move as she swallowed hard.

“Guys broke into the shop. They smashed the window and most of the stuff inside.”

“When it was closed?” he asked, the cop in him clearly strong, trying to get all the facts.

“Yes.”

“You were there,” he said, reading between the lines. He went to shoot up on the bed. “I swear to fucking—“

“Dad,” Traveler said, pushing a hand into his shoulder, forcing him back down. “I’m okay. I hid. I’m okay.”

“Hid? Hid where? There’s nowhere to hide. You should’ve run out the back,” he said, voice soft as he gave her the rebuke.

“They were in the alley too. Smashing my truck,” she said, still bitter about that even though we’d told her we’d gotten it fixed. “I hid in the oven and called August,” she said, motioning toward me.

“The oven?” he asked, brows pinching. “August?” he went on, following her motion toward me.

It was time to step closer.

“Chief Moon,” I said, nodding at him.

His gaze moved over me, keen, observant.

“You called the fucking mafia?” he asked.

To that, Traveler’s lips twitched.

“How did you know he was mafia?”

“Look at ‘em,” her father said, rolling his eyes a bit. “Nice suit. The slicked back hair. The cocky posture,” he said, waving a meaty hand.

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