“Fine.” He didn’t have a lot of time before he was supposed to be in there, so he took a deep breath. “This is very important, Quinn. You know how I never talk about my past?”
There was silence on the other end for a moment. “Hold on,” Quinn said into the phone before his voice came back muffled. “Can you give me a couple of minutes, Shane? I’ll meet you downstairs.”
More muffled sounds came, including some wet ones that sounded a lot like kissing. He would have smiled if he had the ability then. Quinn’s boyfriend couldn’t keep his hands off the squirt, his friend showing up often after their lunches with swollen lips, red cheeks, and beard burn on that baby chin of his. Royce had also walked in on them a time or two making out—their fault because it was at the office—and the kisses he’d seen had raised his blood pressure. If Quinn didn’t remind him so much of his brother, he would have found them ridiculously hot together.
“Okay, I’m alone so you can talk.”
Warmth filled his chest. Quinn was a good guy. “I don’t even know why I’m calling you. Everything is probably okay, and it’s not like I can’t handle myself.” He paused. “It’s just Marc. He may need extra protection if anything goes wrong.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m about to go in and have lunch with my uncle at Café Mediterranean. I haven’t seen him in more than twenty years. I think maybe our fake articles on the net brought me back into his realm of existence, so I just wanted someone to know where I am.”
“In case what, Royce?”
“I disappear.”
“What the fuck?” There was a crashing noise. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t have time to go into it right now.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I only wanted someone to know where I am and…I trust you.”
When Quinn sighed, the affection in the sound made Royce glad he’d called.
“That means a lot to me,” Quinn said quietly. “Do me a favor, and call me when you leave?”
“Sure. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“No, but you’re going to have some explaining to do after this, so you owe me a night out.”
“Think you can pull yourself away from the dick that long?”
“I’ll somehow manage,” he answered, sarcasm thick. “And stop calling him that.”
“I wasn’t talking about his name this time.”
Quinn’s snort was loud as he hung up.
Royce slipped his phone into his pocket, knowing he’d made that call for more than just safety. He’d needed the reminder that he had a life here. A real life. Once upon a time, he’d expected to be a part of his father’s family in New York. And once upon a time, he’d been an angry, resentful teen because his mother had dragged him away from it. That anger had made him do things he’d be making up for for the rest of his life.
He never quite felt clean. No matter how hard he worked to keep his life that way.
Quinn made him feel things. Not in the way Marc was making him feel things—but he reminded Royce that there were good people out there, people he could care about. Hell, any of the guys at Ward would jump into a deeper friendship with him—they’d all made that plain.
He got out of his car and let the sunny, early spring day soak into him a moment before he squared his shoulders. “Time to get this over with,” he muttered as he strode to the door.
The dim lighting inside the café forced him to stand in the entrance while his eyes adjusted. Six men sat at the tables around the one Corbin had taken and the few patrons left in the restaurant looked visibly nervous as they shot quick glimpses at the group. A seventh man sat in a chair near the door. He stared up at Royce with a casual regard that suddenly changed into recognition, and his mouth started to fall open before he got control and wiped his expression.
Royce didn’t recognize him. Like the other men surrounding Corbin, he looked like a cookie-cutter ideal of every thug seen in movies—big, suited-up, and squinty-eyed. With the death of Royce’s father, his uncle Corbin had taken over the family business. And unlike his brother, who had kept their lives ordinary and under the radar, Corbin reveled in reenacting every mobster movie ever made. He also boasted of his Greek heritage yet didn’t speak a word of the language.
When he finally laid eyes on his uncle, he had to work not to show his surprise. Corbin hadn’t aged well. If his memory served, the man was around sixty-five, but he looked older—and not terribly healthy with the yellow cast to his skin. He still wore a black toupee, having lost his hair young, like most of the men in the Karras family. Royce resisted the urge to check his own hair. At thirty-five, it was still thick and black, but it was a worry he hated to admit having. Thankfully, it seemed he’d inherited his mother’s genes, but he knew it could start thinning any day.