Page 68 of Bronx

“When did that conversation happen?”

“Not sure.”

“How long have you known?”

“Dad doesn’t tell me everything, Bronx.”

“How long has this so-called peace treaty been in place with the people who did this to me?”

“I don’t know, maybe two years.”

“Un-fucking-believable.”

“That doesn’t mean he still isn’t going to hold the guy who hurt you accountable. He never agreed to just letting that slide.”

“And the powers that be in The Consortium agreed to that?”

“The guys who snatched you were minor players who were acting on orders from someone who went rogue. They were nobody’s. They don’t care what we do to him if we find him, so Dad keeps looking.”

“How convenient that they don’t have any names for us. And let’s just suppose The Consortium did care about these nobody’s? What if the terms of the agreement Dad made were that he had to drop what happened in the past and leave it there?”

“But those weren’t the terms, Bronx, and Dad would have never agreed to that? Why are you making him out to be some villain when that’s not who he is? He’s just a man who loves the fuck out of you. When will you realize that?”

“He’s a man who has put his family in harm’s way with every dangerous fix he’s agreed to and I just happened to be the first one to pay the price but you could be next, big brother.”

“Bronx–”

“What if it had been Gigi they snatched?” My throat feels like it’s on fire as I yell into the camera. “Or Mom?”

“There are risks with the job, but there are risks in a lot of professions. Mom accepted who Dad was a long time ago, and so did Gigi when she accepted my ring. Last time I checked, bounty hunting wasn’t some peaceful, noble profession. You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“Shut up, Knox.”

“Listen, man, I’m telling this because I love you and I miss you. You’ve got to find a way to let this shit go. It’s eating you alive. You still have a lot of life to live if you allow yourself to live it.”

So easy for him to say.

He’s got a beautiful voice, no pain, and a woman in his bed every night. A woman he can trust. A woman he loves.

What the fuck do I have?

“Will you help me or not?” I say, wanting to end this conversation badly.

“Of course I will. What do you want me to do?”

“His name is Lev Moore. The guy’s biological Father got him out of foster care at some point and they moved overseas for a while about ten years ago. Last name Volkov.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“I’ll send you what I have. It’s not great. He didn’t like to be photographed.”

“Anything else?”

“I had a burner phone number for him that led to a dead end.”

“Send it to me, anyway.”

“Don’t run it through Uncle Camden.”