Page 62 of Royally Ruined

“Jesus,” my father whispered. Swallowing, he reached down to touch his injured leg. “But why?”

“Pride,” I said, sitting back down.

Costello leaned closer to me while he talked to everyone else. I appreciated his warmth; under the table I touched my foot to his. His shoe pushed back gently. “Darien Valentine is the youngest son of the family. He’s unhinged, but everyone believes him. If he says Scotch—Heather,” he corrected himself, and my family looked confused. “If he says she shot him, that’s all his family needs to declare revenge. Handing her over to him is what everyone expects us to do.”

“Everyone,” Uncle Jimmy said, “including your father, I’m guessing.”

Fine lines passed over Costello’s forehead. “Yes.”

Chuckling without humor, my uncle leaned backward. “That’s interesting.”

“Uncle?” I asked.

He was still staring at Costello. “You’re working against Maverick Badd. Why?”

The man beside me went stiff. “Because we don’t agree on how to handle this situation.”

A long silence swam through the kitchen. Why was everyone giving me partial looks, like they were trying to stare at me without me noticing?

“All right,” my dad grunted. “Let’s figure this out together.”

I perked up. “Seriously? You’ll all help us?”

There was much nodding, some smiling, but I was zoomed in on my uncle. His arms were knotted into a pretzel over his barrel chest. There was no happiness in his tone, just defeat, when he spoke. “I understand the problem. The Valentines, the Badds ... they both want you dead, Heather.” There: pure sadness glistened in his eyes. Then he looked down, away, his thick eyebrows hiding everything. “The second one of them sees you ...”

I swallowed loudly.He knows he can’t take me to the station.

Uncle Jimmy had tucked his chin to his chest. He was concentrating on his arms, refusing to look at any of us. I knew how hard for him this was. Many nights he’d stomp into my mother’s kitchen, slump in the very chair he was in now, and just groan.

He’d light a cigarette—and sometimes my mother wouldn’t make him put it out. “The fucking Badds,” he’d grumble. Then he’d notice me and wince. “Sorry for my mouth,” he’d say, but I never minded. It was rare for me to see such an angry adult, so it just fascinated me.

As I got older I learned what had him so stressed. He was the top detective at the local police department. For as long as I’d lived, he’d been hunting Costello’s family. Again and again he’d try to catch them in some act he could book them for.

But he always failed.

His job was to catch the bad guys, and they refused to be caught.

Watching him now, my belly knotted up with regret. I hated that I had to ask him to help not just me ... but Costello. He loathed the man. But when he lifted his head and met my nervous stare, I knew he loved me more.

“For you,” he said, “I’ll do anything.”

I started to perk up, but he stabbed Costello with a glare and said, “I want to talk with you first. Alone.”

“Hold on,” I said. Costello’s nod was stiff. Under the table his foot left mine. “Hey! I said hold on! This isn’t about him, I’m the one with the murderous psychopath chasing me.”

Chairs scraped the floor as everyone took their cue to leave. “The spaghetti can be reheated when you’re all hungry,” Mom said, pointing at the containers sealed with plastic wrap on the counter.

I floated in a web of uncertainty. Gina caught my eye, reaching out to hook my elbow with hers. “Let’s go get the upstairs set up,” she said, glancing behind me at my uncle and Costello. “Does your mom still have that big heavy red sleeping bag? I loved that thing.”

She pulled me and I went. My parents were huddled, whispering as they moved into the living room. They sent a few looks my way as we ascended the staircase to the second level, where all the bedrooms were.

They’re talking about me,I thought.But of course they are. They just learned I was waitressing at a strip club for years.I’d never lied when I said I was a server, I’d just never told them where I was working. It hadn’t mattered. Or so I’d thought.I’m mixed up with the exact kind of people my dad and uncle have been fighting for decades.

Gina opened a door, leading us into my old bedroom. “Hah, she didn’t even get rid of the art on the walls!” My mother had no heart for removing memories. I’d been living downtown with Gina since I was eighteen, but these pale green walls were still covered in my photography from high school.

“Mom is sentimental,” I said, digging blankets out of the closet. “I’ll take the floor. The bed isn’t big enough for us both.”

“Mnhm. Definitely not big enough for two people, unless they slept on top of each other.” Her grin went from ear to ear. “Maybe you and Costello should sleep in here.”

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