Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
I won’t fail again.
Vincent can threaten me all he wants, I’m going to get to the bottom of what happened that night sooner or later, even if it leaves me dead.
Chapter 15
Calvino
Grace is quiet in the car ride over toward Long Beach. She’s sitting down low in the passenger side of my Range Rover and I’m guiding it along the tight LA streets trying to decide if I should draw her out or let her stew. Ever since we came back from the Sandtrap last night, and especially after her private conversation with Vince, she’s been a little distant and strange. When I asked her about it, she only shook her head and said it was nothing.
I let her stay for a while longer as I angle the Rover toward the edge of town. I can tell she’s keeping something from me, and as much as it’s like taking a knife to my kidneys over and over, I don’t push her. I need her to come to me, and the longer she waits, the worse it’s going to be.
Grace seems to notice that we’re going somewhere new as she frowns out the window and glances over at me.
“I thought we were going to the Sandtrap,” she says and toys with her hair like she does when she’s nervous. “I’m pretty sure we passed the turn already.”
“How very observant.”
“And you’re driving. Why are you driving? You usually let someone else do that.” It’s like the pieces are all clicking together.
I give her a tight smile as I stop the car at a light and lean over toward her. “Why don’t you think about it for a second and tell me?”
Her face tightens in an annoyed glare, but she seems thoughtful. “You don’t want anyone to know where we’re going.”
“Very good.” I make a turn and head toward the ocean. “You’re right, we’re not going to the Sandtrap, and I don’t want anyone to know where I’m headed right now. Can you guess what our final destination is?”
She taps on her lower lip and I can tell she’s invested in my game even if she is a little annoyed. I let her think about it as I pull off the main road, down a short driveway, and stop outside of a closed set of gates. I roll down my window and hit an intercom button built into the wall.
It buzzes and I look over at Grace. “Last chance to guess. What are you thinking?”
She holds a finger in the air. “Damon,” she says.
Right as my brother answers the buzzer.
“Come on up,” Damon says, his voice tinny and small, and the gates roll back to reveal his house.
Grace sucks in a breath and grins at me. Damon’s place is no Sandtrap, but it’s not exactly him living in squalor like Rella said, either. Damon’s place is a modern building of glass and angular roofs, kept low like it’s windswept. I park to the side, put on the brake, and step out with Grace hurrying on my heels.
“Your sisters were talking like Damon lived in some bungalow.”
“My sisters think anywhere that isn’t the Sandtrap is a piece of garbage.”
“They’re sort of spoiled, aren’t they?”
I laugh and nod. “Yes, they are, but they’re good people.”
“They would die in a day if they had to live where I grew up.”
“I suspect you’re right, little thief. And that’s why you are who you are.” My sisters are strong in their own way, but it’s not my place to explain that to Grace. I pull her tight against me with a grin as the front door opens and Damon steps out.
He’s two years my junior with sandy dark hair, tan skin, freckles on his cheeks, bright blue eyes, and a muscular frame. He’s got on a tank top, beach shorts, and flip-flops like he plans on going surfing in the next few minutes, but black ink covers most of his skin and he carries an air of danger about him like all the rest of us do. It’s impossible to escape our history, no matter how far we run—and Damon’s been running the furthest and fastest of everyone in our family.
“Welcome to my place of residence, brother,” Damon says, shaking my hand and thumping my back in a brotherly hug. “And who is this you’ve brought with you?”
“Damon, this is my girlfriend, Grace.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says and Damon smiles warmly at her.
“My sisters have nothing but nice things to say about you, which means you’re more than welcome in my house.” He shakes her hand and she gives me a sly smile.
I roll my eyes. I don’t need her getting an ego.
Damon’s place is quieter than the Sandtrap. He keeps a small staff on hand but mostly deals with the house by himself—he cooks and cleans and takes out the trash like a normal human, even though he’s most certainly not normal. He once told me that doing chores keeps him grounded, and if he didn’t, he’d end up like father, an arrogant bastard with selfishness baked deep into his bones. I think it’s absurd for a mafia underboss to practice humility, but he says it works for him, so I don’t argue.