Page 9 of Veiled Vengeance

“Here’s hoping,” I add, then follow suit.

For once, Hank isn’t with a customer. A cigarette hangs from his mouth, the end glowing red in the night. He jerks back like he’s been slapped when he sees us coming, but he quickly schools his features.

“Back so soon?”

I don’t have time for niceties or manners. I’m not sure I had much of those to begin with, but whatever crumbs of them I had are gone.

I grab Hank by the front of his shirt, my fists gathering the fabric and gripping hard, and I slam his body against the tree. Rio leers at Hank over my shoulder.

“What the fuck, man?!” Panic makes its way into his voice. Hank finally looks at me, really looks at me, and sees the dark circles under my eyes. He sees my untamed hair, my desperation.

“We’re not going to do our usual song and dance, Hanky Boy. This is a simple question-and-answer visit.”

“Are you on something?”

I grit my teeth; I don’t have time for bullshit. Spencer and Asher don’t have time either. “No. Now, answer my questions. What have you heard about Cain?”

“Him again? Come on, Zane, I told you everything I know last time.”

I slam him again. “You know something! You have to know something!”

Hank holds up his hands. “I don’t?—”

Rio steps forward and pulls out one of his knives. He holds the blade to Hank’s throat. “You’re no chump, Hank. Youknowsomething. Tell us. No detail is too small or inconsequential.”

“Okay, okay! God!” He sighs a deep frustrated breath. “White Plains.”

“What?” I tilt my head to the side.

“White Plains,” he repeats.

“I don’t have time for your half-assed shit! What are you talking about!”

“They might be in White Plains! There’s someone up there buying a ton of warehouses. I think Cain is scrambling to move his stables because of you.”

Rio scrunches his eyebrows. “Us?”

“I think you’re getting closer to finding him and shutting down his ring.”

I release his shirt, and we turn and walk away without handing over payment or offering a thanks.

Like I said, I didn’t have any manners to begin with.

Rio hoppedin the driver’s seat when we got to the car. A move that—any other day—would have started a brawl right therein the street, but I’m a mess. Rio is too, but he seems more equipped to drive than I do.

We haven’t even attempted to turn on the radio and argue over song choice—we drive in silence.

I startle when I realize where we are.

I give Rio a puzzled look. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“No, I’m not.”

“White Plains is not located on our street.”

Rio nods. “I know that. I passed geography in school.” He pulls up in front of our brownstone.

“Then what the hell are we doing here?”