She makes a sour face. “Same to you.”
That makes me chuckle. “It means cheers.”
“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so?” She picks up her glass. “To what?”
Looking at her, the woman who spawned Reyna, Queen Devil Bitch of All Existence, I say sourly, “Birth control.”
“Heh! I’ll drink to that.”
We clink glasses and drink. When I set my glass down, she’s smiling at me.
Somehow, it’s not comforting.
She says, “So. Homer-who’s-named-after-a-dead-artist. You kill people for a living, sí?”
I debate about how to answer, but decide to go with the truth. She seems like someone who doesn’t tolerate bullshit.
“I wouldn’t say it’s my primary role, but it’s definitely in the mix.”
She nods, grunting. “My husband killed people, too. So did Reyna’s. It’s a way of life for all made men.”
She peers at me over her wineglass as if she’s waiting for me to respond.
“If you’re asking if I enjoy it, the answer is no.” I stop and think for a moment. “Actually, strike that. I can recall several times I did enjoy it. But those particular men were savages.”
“All men are savages,” is her instant response. “It’s simply a matter of degree.”
I say drily, “I’m starting to see where your daughter gets her love for the opposite sex.”
“If you were married to the devil for fourteen years, you’d see a lot better.”
The way she says it, in a low voice laden with pain and regret, makes my skin crawl. “He was that bad?”
She meets my gaze and holds it for several silent moments, then sighs and takes a deep swallow of her wine.
“I wouldn’t have survived him. To be honest, I’ve never known anyone who could. But Reyna did. Would you like to know how?”
She doesn’t wait for my answer before saying firmly, “Grit.”
When I only gaze at her in silence, she adds, “She might not be sweet. All that was carved out of her. But once a heart has been hollowed out by knives, it can withstand anything.”
“What about Lili? Does she have grit?”
She looks me over for a long moment. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
I’m about to protest that I’m not anything like Reyna’s dead psycho husband when the crack of gunfire rings out from somewhere behind the house.
“Oh, listen,” says Mrs. Caruso calmly, glancing toward the kitchen window. “They’re playing your song.”
I leap to my feet, kicking the chair out from under me and crouching low. Pulling my gun from the holster inside my suit jacket, I snap, “Get under the table!”
“No can do. I’ve got wine to finish.”
As another volley of shots rings out, she sips her wine and smiles at me.
Bloody hell. The whole fucking family is bonkers.
I make my way swiftly to the wall next to the windows. Leaning in, I take a quick scan of the backyard. The yard is surrounded by massive maple and oak trees and a tall hedge of arborvitae that blocks the view of the property from outside.
There’s still enough daylight left for me to see the long stretch of lawn leading down to the pool, the formal garden with its rosebushes and fountains, and the pool house off in the distance.
And the fast-moving line of men dressed in black combat gear making their way toward the main house, snaking in and out between the trunks of the trees, tactical rifles held at the ready.
I also see four men lying facedown on the lawn, scattered around like discarded dolls.
Gianni’s guards.
“We’ve got company,” I tell Mrs. Caruso.
She chuckles. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
I turn and glare at her. “Will you get under the bloody table, please?”
“I can get shot there as easily as I can right here. And you should be worrying about Lili, not me. She’s up in her bedroom, in case you were wondering. Turn left at the top of the staircase, last room at the end of the hall.”
Shaking my head, I pull the revolver from my ankle holster and set it on the table in front of her. Then I switch off the lights in the kitchen and leave Mrs. Caruso with her wine.
I head swiftly down the corridor outside, where I encounter Gianni coming out of his study with a shotgun in his hands.
“I counted six,” I tell him. “There may be more.”
“Where?”
“North side of the yard. Headed in fast. How many armed guards are on property?”
“A dozen.”
“You’re down to eight. You have a safe room in the house?”
He nods. “In the basement.”
“Lili’s in her room. Get her and take her to the basement. I’ll deal with our visitors.”
“I’ve already put everything into lockdown mode,” he protests. “The doors and windows are bulletproof and the walls are reinforced. There’s no way they can get in the house.”
“There’s always a way.”
As if proving my point, an explosion somewhere nearby rips through the house, setting the chandeliers swinging and plaster tumbling down in chunks from the frescos on the walls.
“Any idea who your friends might be?” I ask Gianni, eyeing the marble statue of Apollo teetering dangerously atop a column nearby.
“Maybe they’re your friends,” he retorts. “We’ve all got targets on our backs.”
“Fair enough. Where’s Reyna?”
Glancing around, he mutters, “Probably off somewhere sharpening her claws and boiling the skulls of her enemies.”
If we weren’t in the current situation, I might actually laugh at that.
“Get Lili and get to the basement. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
Without waiting for his response, I head toward the explosion, moving swiftly and staying away from the windows. After turning down several corridors, I find the one with smoke drifting in the air and rubble scattered over the travertine.
I back up a few steps, crouch low against the wall, and listen.
It’s silent for several seconds. Then I hear the crunch of broken glass under a boot.
I lean around the corner and open fire.
A hail of bullets screams past my face, missing my nose by inches. Jerking back to safety, I’m gratified to hear the heavy thud of a body dropping against the floor.
There’s a low groan, a wet gurgle, then silence.
Another quick peek around the corner reveals one of the intruders lying flat on his back, staring with sightless eyes at the ceiling.
Other than him, the hallway is empty.
They split up.
I run to the corpse, crouch beside him, and do a quick search of his jacket and tactical pants. He has no ID, phone, or wallet. The only things I come up with are spare cartridges of ammo for the rifle.
I pull off his gloves and shove up his coat sleeves, looking for tattoos, but his skin is bare. So is his stomach and chest when I yank up his T-shirt.
Interesting.
All made men have tattoos that declare their family affiliation. The only lads who don’t wear ink are those who don’t want anyone to know who they are.
In other words, they’re hired help.
Mercenaries.
Gunfire erupts at the front of the house, outside in the courtyard. Most likely it’s Gianni’s other guards putting up a fight to the newcomers in black. I’ll worry about them as soon as I deal with whoever else is inside.