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The thing was, none of the rest of us had that luxury. I had no one to cart my little sister off to. Hell, I don’t know if she would go even if I demanded it of her.
“Why don’t I put Cinna on your sister?” Renzo asked.
“As a bodyguard?” I asked, skeptical. Cinna was a capo. She didn’t work as a bodyguard.
“For the time being, yeah. She and Dav are on punishment for that shit they pulled still. She would probably welcome a distraction. Plus, if you get Cinna, you get Dav. And if you get them, you get those kids they got now. Lots of people around to keep an eye on your sister.”
“Okay,” I agreed, nodding. “She’s not going to like it, but okay.”
“We’ll figure out plans for the rest of the women too,” Rico said, gears already turning.
There was a reason Rico was Renzo’s right-hand man. Sure, Renzo had kept me close until recently, too. But it was different with Rico. Rico was a family man, through and through. He lived, slept, and breathed this shit. If you ever needed to know information about something, he was your guy. If you needed someone to help you strategize something, he was who you turned to.
Honestly, the only reason Rico wasn’t the boss himself was because he and Renzo were so close. And Renzo wanted it more.
“And then we will move,” Renzo agreed, nodding.
I nodded at that, still feeling that churning sensation in my gut, though.
“What do you want from me?” I asked Renzo as Rico walked out to go work on his plans.
“Stay on the Russians. Especially after we make this move. I need to know if there’s more activity, if anyone seems to be gearing up. That kind of thing.”
“Got it,” I agreed, making my way back outside to get in the car I felt like I’d been living in lately. The same car that now had a fucking hideous bumper sticker on the bullet hole from the shooting and new fake plates, in case the Russians clocked me.
I drove back toward the massage parlor, telling myself that there was nothing I could do for Elizabeth, that she had made her own decisions, that there was nothing for me to feel guilty about.
I just barely fought back the urge to go and sit outside of her office building, knowing I was practically putting a target on my back if I did so, but wanting to make sure she at least made it home from work safely.
If she needed my help, I reminded myself, she would ask for it.
But she didn’t.
Not the day after the shooting.
Or even the day after that.
But late on the third night, my phone rang.
And she was frantic on the other end.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elizabeth
I always found the senator frustrating.
Hell, that was probably being nice.
He drove me up a wall most of the time when he was in the office, spouting off his opinions and ideas that would get him nowhere because, well, they were not only antiquated—like the man himself—but they were getting crazier with each passing day.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep on my part—not to mention the debilitating fear I felt every waking moment—but I almost jumped down the man’s throat no fewer than ten separate times when he finally came into the office nearly toward the end of the workday on the third day after the shooting.
He was in rare form, ranting and raving about what he heard some daytime talk show say about him.
“It’s supposed to be about my politics,” he’d grumbled, throwing out an arm, and nearly slapping an intern across her face.
I’d caught a snippet of that show earlier, thanks to one of the staffers who always tried to keep us updated on what was being said about Michael.