Page 50 of Forgotten Sacrifice
Vince
My brother silently pours me a cup of coffee, sliding it over the bar.
“Thanks.” I take a sip, making a face. “Your coffee is the worst.”
Aldo shrugs. “You’re the only one who drinks coffee in a sports bar. What’s your problem? You look like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”
“I’ve got a lot of shit going on right now,” I admit, rubbing my temples. And God only knows what kind ofshitLuna is getting into unsupervised. I grab my phone, pulling up the security cameras I installed after her boardwalk stunt. Luna’s prancing around my kitchen in a tank top and panties, and I quickly close the screen.
“Related to your little chess star?”
I let out a heavy sigh.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He pours himself a cup of coffee, taking a sip. “Gah, that is horrible.”
“A combination of burnt rubber and diesel fuel,” I agree. My phone buzzes, I answer. “This is Vince.”
“Vince, this is Mike.”
“Hey, Mike. What’s up?”
“My sister just left your girl’s salon.”
“Sophie isn’t my girl.” I was eavesdropping this morning, and Luna was right about everything she said. I should’ve cut Sophie loose a long time ago, but watching her strike Luna forced my hand.
“Shit. That’s probably why Sophie was running her mouth.”
“What did she say?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“That you’re keeping an underagegoomah.” It didn’t help matters that I called out Luna’s name last night in bed with Sophie.Christ, I have a problem.
“Sophie’s mistaken,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Well, she claimed she’s gonna go to the feds and airallyour dirty laundry. My sister warned her that was a dumb move.”
“Thanks for letting me know. I owe you one.”
I end the call, banging my head against the bar.The body count around Luna keeps increasing.
“Lady problems?” My brother chimes in.
Only of my own making.
I bang my head again.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Luna
A key jiggles the door, and I look up from my laptop, expecting it to be Vince, but it’s the housekeeper. “Hello, my dear,” the old woman tells me, placing her cleaning supply bucket down and locking the door behind her.
“Hi, Mrs. Poloski,” I tell her politely.
“Do you have laundry?” she asks, getting right to the point. I like that about her; no nonsense, no pretense.
I shake my head. “You don’t have to fuss over me.”
