Page 37

CHAPTER 37

Connor lived—if he lived—in a nice average-looking place: suburban neighborhood, large lots, full-grown trees, ranch-style mid-century modern with a few tweaks like a pop-up mother-in-law suite over the garage.

As Dante and Maarja pulled into the driveway, Maarja said, “Not at all what I expected.”

“Most days, Connor works from home, so they added the space over the garage to keep him out of Owen’s hair.”

She looked at Dante. “What does Connor do for you?”

“He’s my accountant.”

“Well, of course he is.”

“What did you think?” Dante’s mouth quirked. “He was my enforcer?”

“I figured he had to be good at fighting because he’s such a big-mouthed, rude, unbearable—” She did a double take. “Wait. Who’s Owen?”

“Owen is Connor’s spouse.”

Obviously Maarja hadn’t heard him correctly. “Owen is…?”

“Connor’s partner.” Dante got out of the car.

She did, too, although more slowly and with the knowledge she hadn’t come out of that duel on the highway without bruises, and spoke across the car roof. “Owen is a…man?”

“Most definitely.”

“They’re gay.”

Dante’s mouth quirk grew to a smirk. “No need to sound so astounded.”

“Connor came on to me!”

The smirk disappeared. “Do not tell Owen! He’ll beat the snot out of Connor.”

“I would hope to hell! What would Connor have done if I’d taken him up on his offer?”

“Connor played on both sides of the street most of his life, then he met Owen, fell in love, and… Well, he still flirts.”

“In between being a jackass!”

“Some would say that runs in the family.”

“You’re not a flirt.” She started up the front walk.

At her deliberate omission, he gave a bark of laughter and followed close on her heels.

The way he kept close to her gave the appearance of protection, but it didn’t feel like security. It felt as if he wished to keep her within arm’s length at all times. It felt like stalking. “What kind of accountant? Like, as in money laundering?”

“As in, someone who has handled all the changes in the corporation, including moving us out of money laundering and into laundromats.”

“You own laundromats?”

“No. It was a figure of speech. We buy successful companies and leave them alone to make profits, for as long as that works. Connor’s very good at recognizing graft and turning that over to me, and I handle it.” She wanted to ask if Dante whacked people, until he tacked on, “Legally. It starts with firing and ends with prosecution for their crimes.” Apparently he knew he should reassure her.

“Connor has a reputation as being mean.”

“Who told you that?”

She had to sort through all the tumultuous events of the last few weeks, and finally traced it. “Fedelma.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Fedelma is dedicated to the family. She feels she must safeguard our reputations as the most vicious sons of bitches in the Western world. As an accountant, Connor falls below that standard.”

“That is such a weird behavior. Is she a suspect?”

“Of course,” he said matter-of-factly.

She recalled Fedelma’s obvious grief. “She seemed to honestly love your mother, to be grieved by her death.”

In a flat tone he said, “You cannot know what motivated the explosion that took my mother out of the picture.”

“I guess, but—”

They arrived on the broad front porch. Dante pointed to a spot to the side. “Stand there and don’t get in the way.”

This could not be good.

He rang the bell.

The door opened and a very alive Connor said, “Dante, hey, what’s—”

Dante did that magic trick where all of a sudden he pulled his stiletto, clicked it, and aimed the point in Connor’s face.

Connor leaped out onto the porch, somehow passing the blade while landing a stunning blow to the side of Dante’s head. Dante twirled like a ballet dancer to face Connor. In a similar magic trick, Connor had a knife in his hand, pointed at Dante’s heart.

It all happened so fast Maarja was left standing, gaping in shock.

When Dante backed into the house, Connor followed. After a moment of glancing at the car and thinking that this would be a good time to make her exit, that trust between her and Dante reared its ugly head and she followed the men through the foyer into the living room.

She should get a medal of bravery, or at least a ribbon for being not the brightest.

The house inside was welcoming, with comfortable furniture, rugs that splashed colors and natural fibers across the oak floors.

Connor was all growling guard dog. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, coming to my home, blade pointed at my throat?”

“Fucking traitor set me up to die like a horse driven off a cliff. Me and my woman.”

“What?” Connor shouted.

Maarja glanced at the thin, fit man of forty who stood in the door of the kitchen, staring in astonishment at the violence happening in his living room. “His woman?” she mouthed to him.

Owen—she assumed it was Owen—rolled his eyes in sympathy.

To Maarja, Connor looked genuinely shocked. “I would never betray my true lord and leader, but you—”

Dante interrupted. “In the face of such treachery, you can’t claim your home as sanctuary.”

They sounded as if they were reciting dialogue so formal it was written in the Middle Ages. The guys went into half crouches, circling each other like a dance from West Side Story . They snarled, actually bared their teeth, and breathed in strong hisses.

“Okay, that’s it.” Maarja had had enough. She walked toward the kitchen. “Owen? I’m Maarja.” She offered her hand, and they shook firmly. “Do you have a pistol? I’m not going to shoot anybody.”

“Of course I do. Married to him, it’s required.” He went into the kitchen and came back with a small-caliber gun. As he handed it to her, he said, “I’d ask why, but I suspect I don’t want to know.”

“Probably not.” She took it, aimed it at the ceiling over Dante and Connor, cleared the safety, and pulled the trigger.

The blast and the shower of plaster brought the shouting to a halt.

“Maarja, what the hell was that?” Dante shouted.

“Is she crazy?” Connor demanded of his cousin.

“Bad impulse control,” Dante said. “I guess.”

She pointed the pistol at the ceiling again. “Shut up.”

They did, although probably more for fear of what she would do next with the firearm and less out of respect for her fierce pronouncement.

She asked, “You both have a gun on you, don’t you?”

They snorted like angry ranchers who’d been insulted by the resident lamb. “Yeah.”

“Stop posturing, pull your firearms, and kill each other. You’re boring Owen and me.” Maarja clicked the safety on again and carefully transferred the pistol to Owen. To him she said, “Be careful. The barrel’s hot.”

Owen put his arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the kitchen. “I made some iced tea. Would you like some?”

They got through the swinging door and out of sight, then stopped to listen. They heard the thump of fist against flesh, then another, then—

“You’ve got the hardest fucking face.” Maarja could almost see Dante shaking his fingers. “I hurt my fist every time.”

“Next time you decide to attack me for no fucking reason I’ll put on my squishy face.” Connor sounded like the meanest, most bewildered son of a bitch on the planet. Also, as if he’d been hit in the nose and was congested. “What the hell’s the matter with you, man? Why the attack?”

“I got a call you’d been exterminated.”

“The hell you say? From who?”

“An impeccable source. Turns out it was a way to lure me onto the PCH and run me off the cliff.”

“You look alive to me.”

“I’m not that easy to sabotage.”

“I’m not that easy to kill, either. Why did you believe the call?”

“Where were you at 4:43 a.m. when I called to verify?”

Silence.

Owen dashed back into the living room. “He was busy!”

“I was busy, too, but I answered the phone,” Dante said icily.

Maarja stalked out. “If you’d been fully busy the way they were and answered the phone anyway, you’d be here alone. For the rest of your life.”

Both Dante and Connor were white with ceiling plaster and red with blood smeared on their faces, and they stared at Owen and Maarja like two guilty boys.

She and Owen swiveled and marched back into the kitchen.

“Connor just vacuumed.” Owen mourned his formerly pristine living room while he placed the pistol in a kitchen drawer.

“Sorry about the gunshot. I was afraid they were really going to hurt each other.”

“I know. Thanks for the quick thinking.” He poured tea from a stout pitcher and gestured around at the plates and utensils stacked on the countertops. “Pardon the mess. I’m in the middle of renovating the kitchen, I’m a contractor—Rainbow Contractors, you’d be surprised to know the people who actually think that means I’ll color their house—and of course our work comes last.”

“I like the cabinets.” She rubbed her hand on the dark gray highlighted with dark yellow gold. “Unique. And the breakfast table matches!”

“My designer is top-notch.” He headed for the cooking center.

“I have range envy!” She admired the hefty six-burner gas cooktop.

“I like to cook. Hungry?”

Her stomach growled loudly. “Toast if you have some. I haven’t eaten anything today.”

“I can do better than toast.” Owen laid bacon in the frying pan. “The smell of this will heal the breach and bring in the boys. Bread’s in the box. Knife’s in the drawer.”

Maarja sliced bread and placed it in the toaster, set the table, and chatted with the kind of comradery people experience when they have shared experiences. In the case of Owen and her, the sharing consisted of being partners with two murderous dirtbags.

Within a few minutes of sizzling and scents, Owen’s prediction proved true, and Dante and Connor shoved each other through the door.

“You’re not eating at my table looking like that! Plaster and blood. No, sirs!” Owen pointed toward the back door. “Go use the hose!”

Maarja grinned as Dante and Connor trudged out into the yard.

“You have to be firm,” Owen told her.

“I’m getting that,” Maarja replied.