Page 10 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two

I’m gonna be looking over my shoulder for a long time where they’re concerned, but when am I not?

With a tip of his chin, The Bear leaves, clutching the paper with his crew trailing behind him out of my office.

I count backward.

Three.

Two.

The light on my desk indicates that the upper level is clear of all Lorio family members.

I turn in my seat. Nightfall hits the city as I stare out the windows at Manhattan below.

Broad Street is usually full of tourists and sharks who obsessively check their Rolexes and walk fast, even for New Yorkers. It feels cold and sterile, like the narrow-minded focus of the money men on the street.

Shae would hate it here.

I suck in a breath, my chest getting tight. I’d question why I’m thinking about her now, but when am I not? Whether I’m awake and going through my day or deep in sleep, there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about Shae.

This is my curse and my blessing.

Even after all this time, I see her soft smile, her brown, expressive eyes that seemed to see the world in a way so different from anyone I knew then and know now.

If I sit still enough and breathe in slowly, I can catch a whiff of her citrus scent.

The landline rings, a sickly pain settling in my gut. Lakeland’s virtual presence sitting next to thoughts of Shae just feels…wrong.

Unholy.

I pick up the phone and continue staring out the wall-to-wall windows overlooking Broad Street with the Hudson in the distance.

For all the things he is, Lakeland is a creature of habit. He always calls me on Wednesday evening at six p.m. Eastern time. So, I make it a point to always be waiting for the call.

I prove my loyalty every time I answer the phone.

“Nephew,” Lakeland drawls. “How are things in The Big Apple?”

He always does this—starts with pleasantries as if he were a loving uncle and not The Antichrist.

“Same shit, different day,” I reply, my voice gruff. Over the line, the unmistakable squawk of seagulls competes with the dull roar of continuous waves hitting a shoreline.

“Where in the world are you now?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. I smile, even though Lakeland can’t see me, to channel the voice I want to use.

Don’t tip him off. Don’t let him suspect a thing.

“Ah, nowhere important,” he says, but I can guess. He’s on Isla Cara, his playground.

I hum in response.

“I’ll be back in New York at some point,” he volunteers. “I’ve got some things to handle back in the Midwest, though.”

I raise an eyebrow. I want to ask him for more details, but I know he won’t volunteer them.

“Oh? Need me to step in?” I offer, keeping my voice light.

Lakeland makes a dismissive sound.

“Just the little brat,” he sighs, and my eyebrows go damn near to my hairline. He rarely, if ever, acknowledges the “littlebrat,” also known as his daughter. Shit, I don’t even remember her name, and I know I can’t ask him that information.