Page 143 of Wounded King

"The next part on the agenda concerns the empty capo spot, left behind after his short reign by Roberto Giordano," Edoardo continues. "I should have talked to you first, Stephano, since I'm taking one of your men, but secrecy and timing didn't allow it. Accept my apologies, and I will make it up to you."

Stephano leans forward on the desk, his eyes narrow, just as curious as I.

"Let me introduce the new boss taking over drugs, prostitution, and human trafficking, Raffael DeSantis."

The door swings open the same moment as my gun comes out, aimed straight at him, "Where the fuck is my sister?"

I have a new bodyguard. One, I would very much like to kill right now.

"If you don't tell me what the hell is going on, I'll have Felix sit on you." I threaten Pippa.

She shudders in mock fear but has the good sense to look at least somewhat guilty.

"There is no way in hell that Luciano hired you off the street like this. Plus, he got Marcello to agree to you beingmybodyguard." I cross my arms over my chest and in my sternest voice demand, "Spill."

"I might not have been completely honest with you," she says, carefully sitting at the edge of my bed.

"Might?" I cock an eyebrow at her.

"Okay, fine. I wasn't honest with you. I let you believe I was doing oddplumbingjobs," her fingers make air quotation marks.

"What were you really doing?" I can't believe my best friend since childhood has been lying to me since… "How long have you been lying to me?"

"Well, do you remember when Mom got so sick?"

I do. We were eighteen, I think. Or thereabouts. I went to college to become a nurse, and Pippa went to trade school. Her mom was in and out of the ER for weeks, and every time I came home, Pippa looked more hollowed out.

"Yeah," I say carefully. "I remember she had some kind of stomach issue."

Pippa lets out a breath and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Gallstones. Real bad ones. Her gallbladder was inflamed, full of them. She couldn't keep food down, couldn't sleep, barely moved without crying."

I wince. "She needed surgery."

She nods. "Emergency laparoscopic cholecystectomy. Fancy words for a twenty-thousand-dollar bill."

My stomach drops. "You didn't have insurance."

"Bingo," she says, voice dry. "Mom worked three jobs and had no health insurance. And Medicaid wasn't an option because she was making too much money. She was in pain—screaming—and I couldn't just watch her die."

I sit there, stunned. "So what did you do?"

Pippa's eyes flick to mine, and for the first time since I've known her, I see a shadow there. Something sharp and old. Not regret—just memory.

"I did a job for someone," she says simply. "One job. One shot. And the bill was paid in full the next morning."

I stare at her. "A job?"

"I told you," she murmurs, "I'm good at fixing things. Sometimes things that make noise. Sometimes things that bleed."

"Jesus, Pippa…"

She shrugs, the motion too light to carry the weight of what she's admitting. "It was that or watch her slowly die. I made a choice."

Silence settles between us. I don't even know what to say. I want to be angry, but all I can feel is heartbreak. For her. For the girl who sat beside me through every bad school lunch and whispered dreams to the ceiling in my childhood bedroom, and who never told me how much she was sacrificing just to survive.

"And after that?" I ask quietly.

"Once you've done one job like that, people know. It's not exactly a resumé-builder, but it opens doors. I worked when I needed money. I stayed quiet. Kept my head down. Until recently." She pauses, twisting her fingers on the edge of the blanket before adding, "Eventually, I started paying for training. Tactical stuff. Close range. Long range. Surveillance. I figured if I was going to keep doing it, I should get better."