Page 134 of Bad Bishop

He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Plane takes off tomorrow evening.”

I closed my eyes and gulped in a breath that didn’t reach the bottom of my lungs.

“You’re going to waltz, Lila,” he reiterated. “Often. And well. You’ll be the belle of every ball. I’ll make sure of it.”

I smiled a sad smile.

“What good would waltzing do me if I have no husband to dance with?”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

TIERNAN

132 DAYS TO SELF-DESTRUCTION

The morning I flew to Vegas with Achilles and Luca, I stopped at my sister’s apartment to ask her to take care of Lila. I issued similar requests to Da and Fintan. Not that my father was capable of taking care of a goldfish, but hey, at least he’d feel included.

Camorra and Irish soldiers were already in Vegas, preparing ammo and transportation.

I didn’t want to go.

But I didn’t have a choice, either.

Alex had every reason to kill me. Which was ironic, because for the first time, I actually found a reason to live.

My little expiration project proved to be successful. Fintan was right. I found a reason to live. I just hoped I didn’t die doing something stupid.

I showed myself into Tierney’s apartment, as always.

I heard the shower running and waited in the living room until my sister was done. Her place was too frou-frou for my taste. Compensation for the time we spent sleeping in piss-soaked cots, I suppose. I gave myself a leisurely tour, checking out the new art she purchased.

Something on the credenza under a genuine Emilia Spencer painting made me stop. A piece of mangled paper peeking from under a vase. It had a phone number and a name.

Tom Rothwell.

My nostrils flared.

That eejit.

That goddamn fool.

“Hey.” Tierney materialized from the corridor, draped in a silk black bathrobe. She used a towel to dry the red strings of her hair. “What’s up?”

Whirling toward her, I held the piece of paper between my index and middle finger. “You tell me.”

Her pink cheeks paled, her lips pressing into a hard line.

“Wow, a piece of paper.” She rolled her eyes with a laugh, recovering. “Call the press.”

“Tom Rothwell is a federal agent.”

I made it a point to know everything that happened at 26 Federal Plaza. I had surveillance of everyone coming and going into the building around the clock.

There were two governmental agencies any prolific criminal worked hard to avoid—the FBI and the IRS. Tierney willingly keeping a fed’s number could only mean one thing.

“There’s more than one Tom Rothwell in the world.” She folded her arms defensively. “Maybe even in New York.”

“Cut the shit, Tierney.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “What the fuck are you doing, talking to the feds? Are you really that far gone?”