Her surprise slides up her face like a window closing. “The Fynn? The one she’s been working for?” Her eyes flit to the cane and back.
“That’s right. I’m looking for Mirella. Do you know where she is?”
Her face falls, the surprised replaced by worry. “She was here,” she says, and when I step forward, ready to shove my way inside, she holds up her hands. “But she’s gone now. She left about an hour ago.”
“Where? Did she say where?”
“She would’ve gone back to you, I think. Back to your house. She came to ask me some questions, and I told her some things—” She stops and rubs her eyes, and I notice that they’re red-rimmed, like she’d been crying. “A boy named Cillian was here. They got into his truck and drove off.”
I take a step back, heart racing. “Cillian O’Shea?”
“That’s right,” she says, looking at the ground. “I’m sorry I can’t help more. Really, I’m so sorry.” She closes the door abruptly and I hear a lock slam into place.
I back down off her porch and hesitate on the lawn, staring at the ground. The weight of the gun in my waistband is a pressure against my lower back. I feel Nico and Gavino staring at me, but I don’t move. I can’t move, not yet.
Cillian has her, and it sounds like she went willingly.
“Fynn?” Gavino calls out. “Everything okay?”
I move toward him, brain buzzing with the possibility that I was wrong about her, that when she said she was worried we’d think she was a spy that she wasn’t looking for reassurance, but absolution.
Because she really was working for the other side.
“What’s wrong?” Nico asks, his voice a low rumble. He frowns at me, hand straying to his weapon.
“Cillian has Mirella,” I say, looking at my brothers, and a decision locks into place. I don’t know if it’s the right one, or if it’ll solve anything, but I have to do this. “Cillian has Mirella, and we need to get her back.”
Chapter 25
Mirella
During the drive through Phoenix, heading across town then up north, I picture myself escaping a thousand times. I could jump out at a stoplight and run as hard and as fast as I can, and maybe I’ll be able to lose him. I know there’s another car of gangsters following, but if I time it right and get them stuck in traffic, I might be able to disappear.
The moment never comes.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To a safe place,” Cillian says, nodding to himself. “Don’t worry. We don’t hurt our family.”
“I’m not your family,” I say almost automatically.
Cillian laughs. “You still think so? What’d your mother tell you inside that house?”
I clench my jaw and refuse to look or answer. He laughs again, seemingly delighted by this conversation, and keeps on driving. He asks me questions about the Brunos as we go, about their house, about how many guards they have, but I don’t tell him anything. I don’t say a word. And after a few minutes, he gets bored of interrogating me.
We wind through a more upscale neighborhood. These houses have tile roofs, nice garages, and a few of them have a second floor. They have grass and bushes, and the water it must take to keep all this verdant and healthy is probably obscene and borderline illegal. Fynn parks in the driveway of a house with a white stucco front, brown garage door, red tile roof, black shutters, bars over the windows, and a big leafy tree right out front. It’s not the nicest house I’ve ever seen and pales compared to Ville Bruno, but it’s a decent place in a quiet neighborhood, better than where my mother lives, better than anything either of us ever dreamed for.
“Come on,” Cillian says, getting out. The other car parks out front, but the men stay inside. I catch them staring at me through the windshield, hard men with vicious smiles. Their engine keeps running so the AC can keep them from cooking under the burning midday sun.
Inside, the house is mostly empty. It looks like a model home with just enough furnishing to make it seem real, but not enough to feel like anyone lives in it. Cillian whistles as he turns on lights, inspects the kitchen cabinets and the refrigerator for food, and goes into the back bedroom to make the bed. I trail after him, not sure what to make of this.
It all seems so normal, except for the bars on the windows.
“Well now, that’s better,” he says once he’s done setting out towels in the bathroom.
“I’m not staying here,” I say as I back away into the living room. He follows me, smiling the whole time, trying to seem like he’s at ease. But the tension is so thick I could scream.
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I think you are going to stay here for a while. You see, I’m pretty sure your mother told you something in that house, and I’m very sure that you’ll tell your patient, the big scary Italian man, the second he gets you back in his grubby little hands. Once the cat’s out of the bag, all my leverage will evaporate. Those Bruno twats will never trust you again, and they might even kill you out of spite. Do you have any idea how spiteful an angry Italian gangster can be? No, you have no clue, don’t pretend like you do. You’re going to stay here until we understand each other.”